


Kyrie Eleison

by NJil



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Character, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drinking, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Goth bffs, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Musicians, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), References to Mozart, ace crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24004777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NJil/pseuds/NJil
Summary: Aziraphale has gone missing.Tales of Crowley and Aziraphale told through flashbacks as Crowley tries to find Aziraphale and live life as normally as he can until the latter's return.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

-

Present Day

-

He sat alone at the table in the corner, sipping his glass of whiskey as he watched the other patrons of the pub. It was hard to see much of his expression behind the sunglasses he wore, even in the dimly-lit space. The only thing anyone could figure about him was that he didn’t exactly look thrilled to be there.

Frankly, he looked miserable, the closer you looked at him, slumped in his chair and mumbling to himself every so often between drinks. Sometimes he’d call over another drink, but otherwise kept to himself.

Most people made it a point to steer clear of him. Must be going through something, they thought to themselves. They respectfully gave him distance, trying not to look at him for too long. The misery surrounding him was like a palpable cloud in the air.

He pulled out his phone after a while and began scrolling through his pictures.

He didn’t have many that he wanted. He regretted not being more enthusiastic about taking photos when he was with his angel.

He kind of thought he’d have all the time in the world to take more.

Ah, there was one, a selfie he’d taken with him when it began snowing out one February evening.

 _‘Did you cut your hair?’_ the angel had asked that night.

 _‘Yes,’_ Crowley frowned, pretending in an over-the-top manner to be hurt to try and hide how sincerely hurt he was. _‘Last week. I’ve seen you since then.’_

 _‘Oh, sorry,’_ was the angel’s sincere reply. _‘I did notice, I just… I just realized now I hadn’t said anything. I just didn’t know how to bring it up before, last time I saw you, you were so excited about telling me about how you filled every drawer in Dagon’s office with packing peanuts, I didn’t want to interrupt to say something superficial… Did they ever find out it was you, dear?’_

Crowley had grumbled quietly, more annoyed with himself for caring what the angel thought than with his partner.

The picture Crowley was looking at wasn’t a great one. Aziraphale didn’t exactly enjoy posing for photos and actively tried to avoid them, making it almost a sort of game to Crowley. Not a game he played often, mind you, he did have respect for the angel’s boundaries. His companion was blurry in this photo, as he was just turning around to look at Crowley, but you could still see the smile of delight.

Crowley wondered if he’d ever see it again.

‘Where did you go?’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I don’t know what I did…’

They’d seemed to be getting along great. At least, in Crowley’s mind. Yes, they’d had their fight at the bandstand, and Aziraphale had refused to go with him to Alpha Centauri, but… after that, things had seemed to go well. Aziraphale had agreed to go back to Crowley’s flat

_(‘You’re shaking,’ the angel had commented._

_‘’M not.’_

_‘Here, look…’_

_And the angel had reached down and taken Crowley’s hand, and suddenly he couldn’t move, he didn’t dare breathe for fear that Aziraphale would let go, and he could feel it, the slight trembling in his bones, but he wasn’t so sure it was Armageddon-related so much as holy-fucking-shit-my-best-friend-of-6000-years-is-openly-admitting-he-trusts-me-and-just-agreed-to-come-home-with-me-and-is-now-holding-my-hand-related)_

and they had switched places. Aziraphale had taken Crowley’s place and bathed in holy water for all of Hell to see, Crowley had taken Aziraphale’s place and stepped into infernal flame for all of Heaven to see. They’d gone to the Ritz to celebrate their freedom.

They’d seen each other a few more times after that. Crowley had stopped by the bookshop, bringing a wine he’d brought from Tokyo

 _(_ ‘Because, I’m Cabernet Sauvignon from California,’ _the angel had read with a frown, and Crowley had burst out laughing again at the name. He thought he’d got all his laughter out earlier, but something about hearing his angel read it in a serious voice was dreadfully entertaining._

_‘That’s not what it says in Japanese, though, it says “I’m from California and that’s why I drink Cabernet Sauvignon,” but clearly this person isn’t from California at all or else they’d be able to speak much better English.’_

_It was a good wine, despite the silly name)._

and they’d chatted. Crowley joked that Aziraphale, book-lover as he was, should write a New York Times best-selling novel based on their recent adventure _(‘Call it fiction,’ Crowley had laughed)_ , and Crowley said he’d pull some strings to be in charge of the terrible movie adaptation. He promised he could get Scarlett Johansson to play both their roles. Aziraphale had no idea who that was. He then protested that he was a reader, not a writer, and then insisted that Crowley apologize once more for making such a mess of the TV version of Stephen King’s 11/22/63. Crowley had cackled his apology as Aziraphale drunkenly threw a pillow at him, then divulged that it was, in fact, the archangel Michael, not Lee Harvey Oswald, who pulled the trigger that day, assassinating John F. Kennedy. That had been news to Crowley, and he’d asked for more details before realizing that actually, he didn’t really care. Stupid Heaven was always sticking its stupid nose where it didn’t stupid belong.

It was a fun night. Crowley had thoroughly enjoyed himself, but now that day was tainted. What had gone wrong? What could he have said? Was it the thing about the cat? No, there was no way, Aziraphale had put up with all sorts of things Crowley had said before then, there was no way that that was Aziraphale’s breaking point.

Could it?

Crowley downed the rest of the whiskey in his glass.

What could he have said to make the angel disappear?

_(‘You go too fast for me, Crowley,’ the angel had said, long ago.)_

The abrupt sound of a guitar pulled Crowley, at least momentarily, out of his own head. He snapped in that direction, seeing a man sitting at the next table over with a big acoustic instrument in his lap. He was relatively good-looking, youngish, dressed casually in a white T-shirt and black jeans. Crowley pursed his lips as the man tuned, then began to play.

_‘Spread your wings and fly away_  
_Fly away, far away_  
_Spread your little wings and fly away_  
_Fly away, far away_  
_Pull yourself together_  
_Cause you know you should do better_  
_That’s because you’re a free man…’_

‘Look,’ Crowley said loudly over the strums of guitar. He turned to face the man with his whole body, leaning on his table with his elbow. ‘I know you have to play Queen, but do you really have to play that song? And right here?’

‘I don’t have to play Queen,’ he smiled, unperturbed, then continued to sing. _‘Sammy was low, just watching the show, over and over again…’_

Crowley turned back to his drink and groaned loudly.

_‘Knew it was time, he’d made up his mind to leave his dead life behind…’_

Was that it? Had Aziraphale realized that now he was free, he wanted to be free of Crowley, as well?

‘Shut up,’ Crowley sighed loudly. He leaned forward and rested his head in his hands theatrically.

Although, truth be told, this was a fantastic idea for his own line of work. Walking into a bar and playing sad songs obnoxiously next to the already saddest person he could find? Bloody brilliant. Crowley gave him another look - no, this man was too clean-looking to be an actual demon.

_‘His boss said to him, boy, you’d better begin to get those crazy notions right out of your head…’_

_‘Hey man, who do you think that you are?’_ Crowley continued, singing loudly over the guitarist. _‘You should get up and get the fuck out of my bar.’_ He flipped his hand in the direction of the door, in case the guitarist had forgotten where it was.

Some people laughed. Crowley was aware everyone’s attention was on both of them now. The guitarist, himself, smiled wide before going into the chorus again.

_‘Spread your wings and—’_

_‘Go away,’_ Crowley sang. _‘Go away.’_

 _‘Far away,’_ the guitarist harmonized with him, a beautiful major third above Crowley’s voice. Then, on his own, _‘Spread your little wings and—’_

 _‘Go away, go away, far away,’_ Crowley sang again, only mildly annoyed now that the guitarist was harmonizing with him. On his own, he sang, _‘Get your things together, I’m at the end of my tether, that’s because you’re a bloody fucking nuisance.’_

There was some laughter, more applause. Crowley rolled his eyes. The guitarist let the last chord ring out, then picked back up again once their audience quieted.

 _‘He spends his evenings alone in his dark corner,’_ the guitarist sang, playing along with Crowley’s game of changing the lyrics. The demon growled in disapproval. Whatever their joint work on the chorus was, this — making the song about Crowley now, even hinting that he’d seen him here before — was not okay. _‘Keeping his thoughts to himself, quiet, like a mourner…’_

No, this wasn’t fun anymore. Crowley stood abruptly and made his way to the door.

The guitar finally stopped and there were the hollow, echoing sounds of it being hastily put on the ground.

Crowley made it outside before the hand closed around his arm.

‘Hey, where’re you going?’

Crowley wrenched his arm from the man’s grip before turning to glare at him.

‘Look, I told you, I’m not in the mood to hear that stupid song,’ he snapped. He wondered briefly what it would be like to draw his wings back into this dimension, shining and black. _‘Spread your wings’_ indeed.

Except, even drunk, Crowley knew there were too many people around, too much to risk losing. He liked this establishment, for what it was worth.

‘People like it when I sing,’ the guitarist grinned sadly. ‘No one’s ever had a problem before. And we sounded absolutely amazing together, you know, before you ran away. I don’t see what the big deal is.’

Crowley rolled his eyes and continued walking to his Bentley. Damn, where were his keys? He didn’t leave them in the pub, did he? That sounded like the sort of bullshit thing that would happen right about now.

‘I’m famous, you know,’ the man continued. He was still smiling like he genuinely had no idea how aggravating he was. ‘I have three CDs out already. Well, had. They’re all sold out. People usually pay me to sing for them.’

‘Congratulations,’ Crowley said in mock awe as he found the keys in his blazer’s breast pocket.

‘C’mon back inside, I’ll buy you a drink.’

‘Pass.’

‘You know,’ the man said softly. His smile was finally gone. ‘You shouldn’t be alone if you’re sad. I didn’t mean to call you out on it earlier.’

‘I’ll be whatever emotion I want wherever I fucking please,’ Crowley retorted.

‘You shouldn’t be driving. You had a lot to drink.’

Crowley couldn’t help but let out a breath of laughter. The pest was grasping at straws now.

‘Call the cops on me, then. I dare you.’

He opened the car door and got inside.

-

1772

-

He hadn’t expected to run into Aziraphale in Munich. They had the Arrangement, of course, and they had their planned places and times to meet, but this had entirely been an accident. The moment Crowley had realized who he was looking at, he’d tried to quietly slither away, so as not to look like he was purposely following the angel around, but alas, the angel had spotted him anyway. Luckily he didn’t see it in the same way Crowley did - rather, he seemed to be delighted, and even suggested they go and get a drink to catch up.

‘I have to catch a carriage out of here at daybreak,’ the demon admitted miserably over his glass of wine. ‘Hell gave me a note, but I can’t read the handwriting for shit. I have no idea where I’m supposed to be.’

Aziraphale had tugged the note from Crowley’s hand and frowned.

‘Dear, are you sure this is what they gave you?’ the angel asked skeptically.

‘Yes. Why?’

The angel frowned. ‘I looks like someone tried to draw pasta blindfolded. During an earthquake.’

‘So… Italy?’

Aziraphale had sighed loudly, the kind of sigh that meant he wasn’t nearly as bothered as he was putting on. They’d wandered together, sometimes asking random passers-by if they could read the markings. No one could make heads or tails of it.

It was a mild, pleasant night, and they finally sat down to give their feet a rest.

‘Did he say anything else?’ Aziraphale finally asked. ‘About what you’re supposed to do when you reach Mt. Scribble?’

‘Um…’ Crowley said, closing his eyes and thinking. They’d taken breaks and stopped to have a few drinks during their adventure, so his thoughts were a little unsteady. ‘Something about wolves.’

‘Wolves,’ Aziraphale repeated blankly. ‘You’re tempting wolves now.’

‘Maybe? I don’t know.’ Crowley hadn’t actually been listening. He thought it was a little odd but he’d been so eager to get away from the demon informing him of his job that he didn’t bother to ask any clarifying questions. The demon Festen smelled _bad_. Crowley figured he’d improvise when he got to his destination. He just… hadn’t anticipated that the note would be so difficult to decipher.

‘You should pay more attention when your superiors are talking to you,’ Aziraphale frowned, as though he could never imagine himself letting his mind wander while Michael or Gabriel were talking.

Crowley paused, uncertain. ‘I think it was a name.’

‘A name. Someone named Wolf.’

‘Yeh.’

Aziraphale pursed his lips, then suddenly lit up, sitting up straight.

‘Wolf _gang_?’

Crowley still wasn’t catching on. He didn’t get Aziraphale’s excitement.

‘Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart?’

That still meant little to Crowley and that probably showed on his face, judging by Aziraphale’s annoyance that Crowley wasn’t more excited to hear this jumble of syllables yelled excitedly at him.

‘I’ve heard of him, bright young lad in Salzburg. Plays the violin. I’ve been meaning to go and meet him for myself… That’s not the job you were asked to do, was it?’

‘Now that you mention it, that sounds familiar,’ Crowley nodded slowly as he looked to the ceiling. That certainly made a lot more sense than being asked to tempt wolves to sin.

Aziraphale picked up the note once more, squinting at it.

‘No, I still can’t make heads or tails of this note. I don’t know where you’re supposed to meet your carriage, but if you need to be in Salzburg…’

Crowley sat up hopefully. At least with that much information he could pretend he’d been paying attention, even if he skipped out on minor details like where to meet the driver.

Aziraphale’s face broke into a wide grin. ‘It’s not far, and I know some drivers already who would be willing to take you there…’

Crowley followed him around the city as Aziraphale arranged everything with excitement, despite Crowley’s protests that he could figure out the rest on his own.

It wasn’t until Crowley was already set up and ready to leave, sitting in the back of the carriage, that it struck him that just as swiftly as they had met on accident, they would be parting ways.

That made him sad, for some reason.

‘Will I see you in Salzburg sometime?’ Crowley asked in a half-joking tone. Of course it would be nice to see Aziraphale. No matter how much time they spent with one another, they never seemed to grow bored of one another’s presence. The reason Crowley was feeling sad was just because… that’s how you feel when parting ways with a friend, a friend who walked with you halfway ‘round the city in order to help you with your own work. ‘Before I tempt this kid into a life of sin?’

‘Perhaps. I am rather busy these days.’

Aziraphale pulled out his gold pocket watch and sighed. He closed his eyes, as though he couldn’t believe himself.

‘What? What is it?’ Crowley asked in concern.

‘I was supposed to go see a human tonight,’ he frowned, then quickly followed with, ‘I won’t get in trouble, but… I really should be going.’

‘Angel, you didn’t have to help me…’

‘I know that,’ Aziraphale snapped, then seemed to flinch at his own words. ‘I mean… I can still do it. I have time.’

‘I…’ Crowley began, then stopped himself. Thank you, he wanted to say.

But demons don’t say ‘thank you.’ Especially not to angels.

‘Goodbye, dear boy.’

‘Ah.’

He supposed it worked out, in the end. Whatever their actual jobs were, they could both report this back as a success. Aziraphale could say he helped someone in need and Crowley could say he tempted someone to be late to an appointment.

The demon slumped down in his seat as the carriage began moving, bouncing up and down uncomfortably. He hated it, maybe almost as much as he hated the horses that pulled the damn thing.

He hadn’t asked Aziraphale to help him. He hadn’t, had he? But the angel had jumped in immediately to help. And Crowley had let him.

Crazy, huh? A demon trusting an angel.

Come to think of it, Crowley realized, he did trust Aziraphale. Well, that much wasn’t news, he’d always sort of known that, to one degree or another. The Arrangement wouldn’t have worked without some level of trust from both sides.

The thing was… the thing was, Crowley couldn’t think of any situation where he wouldn’t trust Aziraphale. Even if the angels came after him, Crowley felt, in his heart, he would trust Aziraphale. Come demons, angels, God Themself…

Crowley sighed restlessly. He turned toward the window and looked back.

Only to see Aziraphale still standing there in the road, just standing, like he wanted to stay until Crowley was completely out of sight. They made eye contact and the angel waved, smiling broadly. Crowley could still see the his bright blue eyes, crinkling in happiness.

No one had ever looked at Crowley that way before.

Something about the purity of that smile sent a warm spike through Crowley’s chest. He raised his fingers to that place, feeling his shirt as though there might actually be blood seeping through the fabric where he’d felt that piercing sensation.

What are you doing standing there, you idiot? he wanted to call back. Go and do your job before you get in trouble.

Instead, he raised his hand and waved back hesitantly. Finally, Aziraphale turned around and began walking away.

Crowley slumped down in his seat, facing forward again. He was breathing just a bit too fast. Why? He didn’t even need to breathe at all, for Hell’s sake…

And what on earth did Aziraphale think he was doing? He had somewhere to be, he had a job, and he’d shirked it to spend time with Crowley? With a demon?

‘Why didn’t you kick me?’ Crowley muttered to himself, inaudible over the sound of the horses and swaying carriage. He forced his breathing to calm. ‘That day, that first day we met, why didn’t you kick me off the side of the wall? That’s what a demon would have done. Hell, that’s what any other angel would have done.’

Maybe he’d ask him that someday. _Why, pray tell, did you shield me from the rain?_

_Why did you help me?_

_Do you trust me?_

_The same way I trust you?_

-

Present Day

-

Of course the answer was no, or else he wouldn’t have disappeared.

Aziraphale had made it clear during the events of Armageddon he didn’t trust the snake of Eden. He refused to go with Crowley to Alpha Centauri, he wouldn’t tell him the truth about what he knew.

 _I trusted you, though. I always trusted you,_ Crowley thought.

There was the time after Aziraphale had discorporated in the fire, when he’d visited Crowley in the pub, getting drunk, and told him what he needed to do next.

 _Why can’t you do that again?_ Crowley wondered. _Tell me what I need to do. Tell me what you need from me. I don’t know what to do, why you’re gone, where to even look for you. Just… give me a hint. Please, angel._

-

Days later

-

It was impossible.

Of course, Crowley had known it was impossible. Maybe that’s why it didn’t work.

He made his way outside the building and slumped down on the ground, cradling his head in his hands.

He didn’t know what he’d do, anyway, even if he could make it up the rising escalator that led to Heaven. He’d undoubtedly be chased out before he could even ask - and even if he could ask, what then? There was no guarantee those assholes would even answer him.

What if Heaven didn’t even know Aziraphale was missing? What if they used that against him - either of them? What if they found him first? Found him and tried to kill him again, and this time, Crowley couldn’t stop them…

But what if they did know where Aziraphale was? What if this was all planned, intentional? What if it really was that Aziraphale needed to get away from Crowley?

What if Aziraphale did step out in Heaven, and his face twisted in fear and pain at the sight of Crowley, realizing he couldn’t even escape the demon here?

Somehow, the thought that Aziraphale was actively avoiding him was more painful than the thought of Heaven coming after Crowley with holy water to chase him out.

Crowley stood quickly. This was not the place to show weakness. This wasn’t a good place at all for him to be in general. He put his head down and made his way back to the Bentley and drove at breakneck speeds.

He’d taken over caring for the bookshop in Aziraphale’s absence. He never opened it to customers, but he did stop by every so often (only once, maybe twice a day). He knew Aziraphale liked to keep it dusty and dark, unsorted, chaotic, so he did his best to refrain from cleaning too much.

_(Ah, angel, you’re back. Good timing, I just stopped by to say hello. You know, it was the funniest thing, I was out the other day when I noticed they opened a new cafe by my flat. It’s incredibly expensive by the look of it, and I thought, ‘Huh, haven’t seen the angel for a while, maybe he’d like to try it out and we could catch up?’ It isn’t as though I’ve been stopping by here every day for the past 183 days since you disappeared. Hardly noticed you were gone, really. Although - and it’s a funny coincidence, really, seeing as how I never come by here, I actually did find my way to your shop last month and caught a cat sleeping on your doorstep. Was that the cat you meant? I tried to catch it but it scratched me. I would have caught it - I could have, had I wanted to - I just didn’t know if that’s what you were talking about, and I didn’t want to waste energy on a pet you didn’t want if that wasn’t specifically the cat you meant)_

He sat on the sofa in his cement-colored living room. The room was cold without Aziraphale, in every sense of the word. Not that the angel had stopped by often, but… just knowing he wasn’t there, may never come again, felt cold. The angel had always provided a sort of warmth beyond just physical.

Crowley tried to imagine what life would be like if the angel never returned and felt the hot sting of tears in his eyes.

_I fought them because of you, but if you’re not here… why am I?_

So it was pointless to think of things like that. It was impossible, anyway. There was no way Crowley was spending the rest of existence alone. He curled up on the empty sofa and tried to sleep until the angel’s return.

-

Days later

-

‘You’re hard to find.’

Crowley ignored the statement, though he’d heard it clearly and could tell it was directed at him. He recognized the voice right away.

A hand waved uncomfortably close to his face and Crowley finally looked up slowly from his newspaper, confirming his suspicions. It was the guitarist from a few weeks ago, taking a seat at the table across from Crowley.

‘How’s it going?’

Crowley indicated toward his ears, which had clunky black bluetooth earpieces shoved inside.

‘Can I sit here?’ the man asked loudly.

‘Can’t hear you,’ Crowley shrugged, bobbing his head slightly as though he was listening to anything other than Tchaikovsky’s Trio in A Minor for Violin, Cello, and Piano. ‘Music’s on.’

The man called over the waitress and ordered a coffee and a muffin. Crowley rolled his eyes, raising his newspaper higher so he didn’t have to look at the man, and actually did turn the volume up on his music.

The moment the order arrived, Crowley handed the waitress the handful of money he owed for his own coffee (all in small coins, much to her dismay, but it was all there) and began walking away.

‘Wait!’ the man called.

The cafe was only a five-minute walk from Crowley’s flat, so he hadn’t driven, and now that he was being followed, he decided it safer to walk in the opposite direction of his home, lest the man learn where he lived.

He heard footsteps running after him and finally turned, irritated.

‘Can’t take a hint, can you?’ he asked lazily.

‘I just want to know if you’re doing alright,’ was the answer. The guitarist flashed his smile once more. ‘You just looked so sad that night, and you haven’t been back to that pub in a while.’

Crowley shrugged.

‘I’m busy, there are other places to drink, and you’re annoying.’

‘So it’s because of me?’

Crowley shrugged once more.

‘If it’s because of me,’ the man said carefully. ‘I’ve been kicked out. Thought you should know.’

‘You’ve been kicked out of a pub?’ Crowley laughed in as dickish a manner as he could. ‘I’ve been kicked out of 27. Weak.’

He turned around and continued walking.

‘You were?’ the smiley man asked in fascination. ‘Which ones?’

‘I outlived them,’ Crowley answered simply as he walked. Actually, truthfully, it was _Aziraphale_ who had been kicked out. Crowley’s job was to be subtle and charming on the outside. Hard to tempt people if they didn’t like you. He knew better, even drunk, than to pick fights with people over how they prepared their consumables.

Before any clarifying questions could be asked, Crowley continued, ‘If you’re famous, why you didn’t get your famous friends to help you out?’

‘I guess you used to be a regular at Charles’s. I’d only been going there for about a week - that’s when I noticed you. Anyhow, the bartender wasn’t happy I chased a regular away.’

Crowley found it slightly disturbing that he’d been observed without realizing it. He hadn’t really been paying close attention to humans since… well, since the world didn’t end.

‘Is there something you want?’ he finally demanded.

‘Yes, actually.’

Crowley stopped once more, turning around fully to glare at the smiling musician, hoping to intimidate him, at least slightly. Crowley was tall, but this man was approximately the same height.

‘Can we discuss it over a drink?’

-

It was a different bar than the one they’d met in, and nearly empty at 2 PM. The man, Landon, had suggested it, and the bartender seemed pleased enough to see him.

Once they had their drinks and were sitting in a suitably dim corner, Landon smiled and clinked his glass against Crowley’s.

‘Cheers!’ he grinned.

‘Geonbae,’ Crowley replied without emotion. It was probably too late to convince the guitarist he didn’t speak English.

‘Okay, first order of business,’ Landon announced as he leaned forward eagerly in his seat. ‘You’re a musician, aren’t you?’

‘Not in the least,’ Crowley said flatly.

Landon leaned back, a combination of surprised and dismayed.

‘You can sing though.’

‘About as well as the next drunk person.’

‘That’s a lie and you know it.’

Crowley had never thought much about his own singing, to be honest. Sometimes he sang along with his albums in the car, but that was merely something he did for himself.

(However, if this smiling idiot had asked, _Have you ever studied music before?_ that would warrant a very different answer from the demon. He had studied music alongside the greats. Picked up a thing or two along the years. Hard not to when he had so many questions that people loved answering.)

‘Guess I’m a liar and not worth your time,’ Crowley smirked back.

‘Well, whatever your background,’ Landon said with a brandish of his hand, ‘You’re very talented.’

Crowley silently drank from his glass, rolling his eyes as obviously as he could despite his sunglasses. _Hooray for me, Mr. Famous here thinks I’m talented._

‘I’m sure I mentioned before, I’m a musician. I’ve been working on my next album, but I’ve sort of hit a roadblock. No ideas.’

‘Can’t help you,’ Crowley shrugged. ‘’M not a musician, like I said.’

‘Okay,’ Landon nodded, finally accepting. ‘The second thing I wanted to talk to you about…’

Crowley raised his eyebrows to indicate he was listening.

‘You remember the girl I was with when we first met? Allie, her name is.’

‘No clue,’ Crowley said truthfully.

‘Well, anyhow, she thinks you’re cute and would be thrilled if you could meet up with her sometime.’

Crowley laughed loudly and cruelly.

‘Stole the attention of your date, did I?’

‘Not at all,’ Landon smiled. ‘She’s just a friend of mine.’

‘Either way,’ Crowley said, settling back down. ‘Not interested.’

‘Wait,’ Landon shook his head, fumbling in his pockets for his smartphone. ‘You said you don’t remember her, right? I have a picture…’

The musician quickly held up his phone for Crowley to see. It was a picture of both Landon and this girl (whom Crowley now faintly remembered) at the beach. Crowley gave the picture no more than a passing glance, remaining sprawled in his seat, and turned his head away.

‘Not interested,’ he repeated. ‘Are we done here?’

‘She’s really cute, though,’ Landon protested. Though… there was something in his voice, like he wasn’t all that surprised, or wasn’t actually trying to get Crowley to change his mind.

‘You’re not interested in girls,’ he stated with the air of someone solving a riddle.

‘Nope,’ Crowley agreed. Then, hurriedly, realizing where that could lead, ‘Men either.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

Crowley shrugged. I don’t have to make any sense to you.

‘You could probably get with anyone at all in England, and you’re telling me you’re not interested in any of them?’

‘Only England?’ Crowley said, playfully offended as he examined his nails. ‘I must be losing my touch.’

Landon looked suspiciously at him as he took a sip of his own beer.

‘You know…’ he said carefully. ‘Whatever you’re going through, maybe it would help to be able to write it down. Writing music has helped me through so much.’

Crowley had no response to this. He wasn’t a writer. If anything, Aziraphale would be the writer, book lover as he was.

But thinking of Aziraphale just made him sad again.

‘I’m just trying to help,’ Landon continued in Crowley’s contemplative silence. ‘I don’t like seeing you so glum.’

‘’M not glum,’ Crowley retorted, perhaps too quickly. ‘I’m just busy and not interested in playing band with you.’

-

2016

-

Crowley woke up to a massive, pounding, roaring headache. A wave of nausea hit, then she squeezed her eyes closed once more, trying to will the world to stop spinning so rapidly. She groaned slightly.

‘Hey, it’s alright, take it easy,’ Aziraphale said soothingly.

She didn’t want to, but the familiarity of the angel’s tone convinced her to open her eyes to see him handing her a glass of water.

The room was small, dimly lit from the street lights outside. Crowley groaned again and willed herself into an upright position.

‘’S not like me to drink ’til I pass out,’ she managed before taking a long drink of water, draining the entire glass in one go. True as though it may be, it was a piss-poor excuse for her behavior.

‘You had a long day,’ Aziraphale soothed, ‘But you’re okay now.’

Crowley ran a hand through her hair, still curled from earlier. Her hat was missing, as were her glasses. It mildly concerned her, but in the end, she found she didn’t actually care all that much. Knowing Aziraphale, they were probably here somewhere, safely set to the side where Crowley couldn’t roll over on top of them.

‘Let me get you some more water,’ Aziraphale said as he took Crowley’s empty glass and hurried away with it.

‘…rr the best, angel,’ Crowley muttered when her companion returned with the second glass.

‘Sorry?’

Crowley closed her eyes again. Her head ached like nothing else, and she was certain she wasn’t still drunk.

Still, she could act like it. What harm would one or two carelessly kind words do?

‘’Ss my line. Sorry for passing out in your house,’ Crowley managed. She managed to look around. It was a small thing the angel resided in, not quite as good as the Dowlings’ main part of the mansion, certainly not on par with his bookshop in Soho… but still nice, in a homey, cluttered sort of way. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever visited here before.’

‘No, you haven’t,’ Aziraphale agreed, then put on his ridiculous gardener’s accent. ‘No reason to, after all. We don’t even know each other officially, Ms. Ashtoreth.’

She offered a small laugh out of politeness and closed her eyes again. The world was still spinning somewhat and she wanted nothing more than to pass out again until it went away.

‘If you’re tired, you’re more than welcome to use the bed. It’s much more comfortable than the sofa.’

‘I couldn’t do that to you, angel.’

Despite her protests, Aziraphale set the water glass down and lifted the demon’s arm and draped it over his shoulders, half-lifting Crowley and helping her toward the bed. She tried to walk on her own but found herself leaning even more heavily on him.

Part of her knew she was leaning on purpose. There was no reason, really, for her to be drunk at all still, yet here she was leaning on Aziraphale.

‘You shouldn’t do that,’ Crowley protested. Aziraphale set her down. ‘Honestly, that’s nothing but danger. You could have killed me and I was too incapacitated to even lift a finger to stop you. I could be in all kinds of trouble with Hell.’

‘Do you honestly think I’d ever hurt you, Crowley?’ Aziraphale asked softly.

Crowley thought about it a moment. She was dead certain from the depths of her core that Aziraphale wouldn’t hurt her if his life depended on it. That was sort of… one of the most aggravating things about him. He would save her and be kind to her without any expectation of anything in return. She wondered briefly, something she would never admit she wondered often, if the Almighty themself descended from the heavens and gave Aziraphale the explicit command to kill Crowley, if Aziraphale would have enough sense of self-preservation to do it.

It both killed her and made her heart soar to know the answer was no.

‘Nah.’

‘You hesitated before you answered.’

‘’M drunk,’ Crowley retorted. She leaned on her side toward him and gave him a devilish look. ‘What about you? Trust me?’

‘Of course not,’ was the angel’s immediate reply, standing.

Silence blanketed the room so thickly Crowley wondered if her ears had stopped working in her dismay. But she could hear herself breathe shakily, could hear the flutter of eyelashes as Aziraphale blinked.

‘I—I’m sorry, Crowley,’ Aziraphale backpedaled. ‘You know I…’

‘No, you said it already. Time and time again. Angel, demon. We’re enemies. Got it loud and clear.’

Aziraphale took a step backward, then walked away into the darkness.

Crowley sighed. She turned so she was facing upward and draped an arm over her eyes.

She wondered if she could use just a quick miracle to make a note in Mrs. Dowling’s planner saying Nanny Ashtoreth had the day off. On the plus side, it would certainly cause chaos, since they certainly didn’t remember that note; on the other hand, it still meant Crowley would have to sneak out of this room before anyone else was awake.

It was a fine line to walk, leaving after just enough time to pretend Aziraphale’s words hadn’t hurt, but also before any unseemly rumours could develop.

Before Crowley could check the time, she heard Aziraphale tiptoe back into the room. He sounded hesitant and soft as he moved closer to her, finally kneeling down beside the bed and resting beside her.

‘There are things I have to say,’ he whispered, almost more to himself than to her. ‘And there are things I can’t.’

She understood, broadly. He had to hold her at bay, claim at least a bit of dignity as an angel.

But she didn’t reply. By the softness in his voice, he probably believed her to be asleep.

She could do that much for him. If he trusted her to be asleep, she could make herself sleep.

But also set an internal clock to be up before 5 AM.

-

Present Day

-

 _Unknown number, 8:35 PM_  
Prophecy girl

 _Unknown number, 8:36 PM_  
[Unknown number has just sent a location.]

 _Unknown number, 8:36 PM_  
Meet me here tomorrow at 4PM.

 _Anathema Device, 8:40 PM_  
Who is this?

 _Unknown number, 8:41 PM_  
We met at the Tadfield Airbase.

 _Anathema Device, 8:43 PM_  
I mean it

 _Anathema Device, 8:43 PM_  
Im not going anywhere until you tell me who this is

 _Unknown number, 8:43 PM_  
It’s important

 _Unknown number, 8:45 PM_  
We met. Me, you, the antichrist. Other folks.

 _Anathema Device, 8:50 PM_  
That’s not helping…

 _Unknown number, 8:51 PM_  
I was in sunglasses

 _Anathema Device, 8:52 PM_  
Wannabe Keith Richards?

 _Unknown number, 8:52 PM_  
FOR DUCKS SAKE

 _Unknown number, 8:52 PM_  
FUCK

 _Unknown number, 8:53 PM_  
FUCK SAKE

 _Anathema Device, 8:57 PM_  
Wait, were you the one who hit me with your car?

 _Anathema Device, 9:32 PM_  
Hello?


	2. Chapter 2

Present day

-

Crowley dreamed.

He didn’t dream often, he found dreams weird and upsetting.

This dream was no different.

He was in an escape room with Aziraphale. Well, it was more of an escape house than a single room, but the concept was the same.

They were given a book with riddles. Aziraphale would work on one page, Crowley would work on the neighbouring page, and together they’d find keys hidden about their limited space. Every time Crowley found a key, he handed it to his angel for safekeeping.

He didn’t trust himself to hold on to them. He had a nasty habit of losing things of importance.

Once they’d reached the end of the book, they realised it was time to open the final door, the one that led out of the room. Aziraphale slowly undid every single padlock and finally opened the door as the clock counted down five, four, three, two…

The timer stopped. God stood in the open doorway, beaming at them with open arms. Crowley took a step back and shielded his eyes from the incredible light while Aziraphale stepped forward.

Once the angel stepped through, the heavy door began to close.

‘No! Wait!’ Crowley cried, pushing himself against the door fruitlessly to try and keep it open. ‘Why him? Why not me?’

YOU HAVE NO KEYS.

‘I do! I— I did!!’

Crowley struggled, feeling his feet slipping against the floor as the door shut, trying in vain to keep it open.

‘We solved every single puzzle in the damn room! We’re a team, we worked together!”

THERE ARE NO TEAMS HERE.

The door closed slowly and firmly. Crowley slumped down against it, feeling the tears sting his eyes.

‘Crowley?’ a voice said softly. from the other side.

‘Angel,’ Crowley responded.

He felt like there was something he wanted to tell Aziraphale, something important. The words weighed on his tongue like lead. He supposed he could say them, if he really needed to, but right now they were just so difficult.

_I can tell him tomorrow._

That’s what he always thought, every time he saw the angel, for at least 2000-ish years.

-

Anathema wasn’t really sure what possessed her to agree to meet with the weirdo she’d briefly met over a year ago.

He sat back in his chair in the diner, leaning back perilously as he played on his phone. He looked almost the exact same as the last time she’d seen him, except much cleaner looking now. He’d said something about an explosion and multiple fires that day they’d first met, and his face and blazer had been marked with soot in evidence. Today, all of that was gone. His dark red hair was spiked upward, he wore expensive-looking and immaculate black clothes, and the same round sunglasses as before hid his eyes.

Anathema approached the table and put her hand down on it hard, trying to startle him out of this power play he’d already started.

He looked up slowly, with what Anathema figured must have been his idea of a slimy grin. He didn’t seem perturbed by her in the least.

Though his aura spelled out the stress and anxiety he was feeling since before she arrived in bold around him.

‘What’s this about?’ she asked.

‘Book girl!’ he said brightly. If she didn’t know any better, he almost sounded happy to see her. Carefree. ‘Sit down. Order anything you like. ’S on me.’

Anathema looked dubiously over at the menu. The demon himself had nothing but a cup of coffee, which was clearly the cheapest thing on the menu at £10. She found herself uninterested in the thought of being indebted to him. She’d heard enough stories warning humans never to trust deals from non-humans.

‘I’m not sitting until you tell me what this is about. How did you even get my number?’

‘I’m a demon, I can do any number of things,’ the demon shrugged.

‘Then,’ said Anathema slowly, ‘Whatever you need, you can do without me, right?’

He stopped, put the phone down gently, face-down on top of the table.

‘Have a seat, and we’ll discuss it,’ he replied slowly, accepting that he needed her, and she knew he needed her. It clearly wasn’t a position he enjoyed.

He laid out his problem carefully, as though he’d rehearsed it.

The angel - Aziraphale, the one with platinum hair and long coat - had disappeared. The demon was worried. Despite being on opposing sides initially, he’d come to realise he cared about the whereabouts of angel, whether or not he was okay after they had thwarted the apocalypse. Anathema was tempted to disbelieve him, if not for the aura surrounding him. Midnight blue, bruised violets, streaks of passionate crimson. He was sincerely mourning and distressed about the whereabouts of his friend.

‘Did Agnes say anything? In that book of hers?’ the demon inquired, incapable of hiding the desperation in his voice. Anathema didn’t need to read his aura to hear how his heart ached with hope through the tenor of his voice.

‘She didn’t,’ Anathema said in near apology. She remembered the book she and Newt had burnt. Could that have helped? Dare she tell this demon what she had done?

He looked so heartbroken that she caved.

‘I… I can try to use my magic to locate him, though… it might prove just as difficult as it was to find Adam. He was under my nose the entire time and I didn’t even know it was him.’

The demon pursed his lips in harrowed thought.

Anathema realised he must not have a lot of people he could turn to. The angel had said they met in the Garden of Eden, hadn’t he? They’d known each other for thousands of years, and now this… Aziraphale was missing.

She promised to help. The demon said, unthreateningly, that he’d be in contact.

-

1990

-

Crowley sauntered into the bookshop, glancing around at the patrons who were reading quietly as they stood among the bookshelves. It was the sight of them that caused him to not call out to Aziraphale. He glanced down at his watch. Huh, it was 9:47 PM. Aziraphale didn’t usually keep the shop open this late.

He resolved that it would be incredibly funny to sneak up on the angel if the latter still hadn’t noticed he was here. Crowley stalked the aisles as he looked for the telltale sign of white and cream, finally spotting him near a corner, next to a grimy window.

Crowley had once been the serpent of Eden. If he knew one thing, it was how to sneak, to slither silently, unnoticed. Snakes are predators and rely on their ability to remain unseen until it’s too late. His feet didn’t make so much as a whisper as he made his way forward, eyes focused, unblinking. He came from behind, focused entirely on the angel’s fluffy, cloud-like hair and the shoulders of his cream coat. Aziraphale studiously turned the page of the book he was currently engrossed in.

‘Mr. Fell?’ a male voice called out, causing the angel to look up. Aziraphale spared Crowley a brief, barely surprised smile.

‘Hello, dear,’ he said softly, before announcing as he began to walk, ‘I’ll be there in a jiffy, just hold on.’

Crowley pressed his lips together in displeasure. Aziraphale put down his book, open side down to keep his place, then strode down the aisle, being careful not to step on any books piled atop the floor.

‘Don’t touch that book,’ he said before disappearing.

Crowley silently mocked the angel to the bookshelves. The books nor shelves laughed. He put the bottle of wine down, folded his arms, tapped his foot impatiently. He’d come here to drink with the angel, not be second to the customers. Or rather, wannabe-customers. Like the angel would part ways with any volume under his roof. Crowley could leave any trashy novel lying around, but as he’d discovered in a previous experiment, any collection of paper with words in this establishment became Aziraphale’s collection of paper and words. It didn’t matter the content.

The demon allowed a minute to go by, tapping his foot impatiently. He looked down at the book Aziraphale had left. A wicked thought crossed his mind.

He pushed the book a bit with his index finger.

All at once the sound of the angel arguing with his customer stopped. Aziraphale cried out, ‘Crowley, don’t you dare.’

The demon couldn’t help it, he laughed out loud. He looked up into the reflection of the glass to see Aziraphale glaring at him from the ancient cash register.

So he did it again.

The angel slammed his palm down on his desk. The customer, a man in his 30s with a battered baseball cap, looked slightly taken aback.

Crowley turned and looked at the angel and human. He leaned back against the windowsill, a smirk on his face. _Come and stop me,_ the smirk said.

Aziraphale gave Crowley a last glare before returning to arguing with the man who wanted to be a customer.

This time, Crowley didn’t even have a chance to make contact with the book before the angel yelled out again.

‘Crowley, for the love of— for the last time, I told you to leave that book alone! There is absolutely no reason for you to be such a child about this—!’

‘I’m not touching it,’ Crowley replied innocently, moving his body so Aziraphale could see that, indeed, there was space between his finger and the leather of the book.

‘You’re like a cat that sees a glass of water and has to knock it over!’ Aziraphale yelled.

‘I’m not a cat,’ Crowley protested in earnest.

‘There is literally no reason for you to lay a hand on that book, you preposterous old serpent!’

The customer took a step back, clearly not knowing what to make of the situation. Several other customers were looking their way as well.

But Crowley still itched to touch the book. He didn’t know why, now, but now that he knew what kind of reaction he could get, he absolutely had to. That was the only thing on his mind, more important now than even drinking. He held up his hands innocently and began to walk away from the book.

‘That’s better,’ Aziraphale forced himself to say, but even he looked like he didn’t believe that was the end of Crowley’s shenanigans. He turned back to face the customer. ‘Anyhow, that is absolutely the lowest price I’m willing to go. If you’re desperate, I can recommend you another bookshop with a cheaper 1947 edition. Now, I know—’

Crowley turned and picked up the book in one swift motion, turning the page and setting it back down.

‘ANTHONY J CROWLEY,’ the angel roared. Crowley couldn’t help but laugh as he dodged into another aisle, out of Aziraphale’s sight.

‘That’s it!’ he continued. ‘Everyone, out! Out this instant! We are closed!’

There was some grumbling as customers began putting their books back, collecting their things and leaving.

‘No, you may not!’ Aziraphale replied to a voice Crowley couldn’t hear. He snaked into another aisle, listening to all the displeasure as the humans were forced out.

‘What do you suppose that’s all about?’ a voice asked in a hushed tone.

‘I’ve seen the other one before. The two, they seem to have… you know, a thing for each other.’

Crowley bristled. He was a demon, he certainly didn’t have ‘things’ for anyone. He hoped the heat in his face wasn’t too obvious. And even if it was, it was rather warmer in this corner than it was in any other corner of the bookshop.

Demons don’t blush.

Snakes don’t blush.

6000-year-old immortal wreakers of havoc do not blush.

Or have ‘things’ for angels.

He let the statement _(they seem to have a thing for each other)_ replay in his mind. Did that mean they saw something that Aziraphale was doing toward him, indicating a thing for him?

He vaguely wondered what, then shook the thought from his head.

Crowley touched his hands to his cheeks to try and cool them before slinking back into the most open area of the bookshop.

‘What is it you want, Crowley?’ Aziraphale asked in exasperation as he locked the door. At least he didn’t sound angry anymore. Crowley liked causing chaos, but he didn’t much care for Aziraphale sounding legitimately angry at him.

‘I have a ‘thing’ for you,’ Crowley smirked.

The angel looked back at him, nonplussed. Normally, the angel was slightly shorter than Crowley, but where he stood now, Crowley had to look up at him.

‘Think I left it over there,’ the demon admitted, realizing he couldn’t get the same rise out of Aziraphale.

The angel shot him another angry look and went into the corner to retrieve the wine, himself.

‘I just turned the page, angel. You should be able to find the correct one again, no problem. It’s either one forward or one back - I don’t really remember which direction.’

There was silence. Crowley sheepishly looked into the corner where he’d left Aziraphale and his book. Both, plus the bottle of wine, were missing.

‘Angel?’ Crowley asked.

Shit. Maybe he’d succeeded in actually angering the angel after all.

Crowley stalked the rows and rows of shelves. It all seemed so empty now. He refused to call out to the angel again. Crowley replayed the past ten minutes in his mind. Did Aziraphale mean that he wanted him to leave as well? When he closed the bookshop, did he intend that he wanted absolutely everyone out? Non-humans included?

The demon was on the verge of giving up when he heard footsteps behind him.

Aziraphale had two glasses, one in each hand, filled partially with red. The angel looked amiably at Crowley, the kind of look that felt like a breath of fresh air filling Crowley’s heart, and handed him one of the glasses.

‘Tell me about your day,’ the angel smiled.

-

Present Day

-

It was another fancy restaurant. Anathema still refused to order anything and was beginning to suspect perhaps the demon in sunglasses didn’t eat. The displeasure on their waiter’s face was clear but he didn’t dare utter a word about it.

‘I’ve contacted my mother about sending me some of my old instruments for locating lost items. They should arrive this week,’ she said.

Crowley pursed his lips, clearly wanting to say something along the lines of _he’s not an item_ but also acknowledging the fact this meant nothing else was working and he was desperate to try anything.

‘You must really miss him,’ she observed into the silence.

He again looked displeased at being read.

‘Just worried,’ he corrected her. ‘We stopped Armageddon, after all. Heaven and Hell have every reason to want us out of the picture. If they try something like that again, I’m not sure I could fight them all off on my own.’

Anathema leaned on the table toward him.

 _You didn’t do a lot at the airbase - at least, not that I saw,_ she wanted to say. Perhaps he’d done more behind the scenes than she was aware of.

‘You wouldn’t be on your own,’ she said gently, significantly. ‘I mean, me, Newt… the kids, Tracy and the old man, we’re all with you…’

‘I don’t feel great about relying on eight humans, four of whom are still practically babies, to help defend the earth against not one but two entire armies.’

Anathema took a breath before continuing. ‘Look. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling. I can see that you’re sad. If that’s all you were thinking about, your aura would strictly be the yellow of anxiety, but in you I can see sadness, worry, l—’

Crowley growled loudly to cut her off. He leaned back perilously in his chair and looked away.

‘What does it matter?’ he hissed. ‘I already told you I’m worried. Not hiding anything.’ He crashed all four legs of the chair back to the floor and leaned forward to glare at her. ‘You know, it’s in your best interest, too, to find him, so there’s no need for you to play mystic with me and announce everything to the world if you can already see that I’m not lying.’

‘It’s you!’ a voice exclaimed.

Anathema and Crowley both looked up. A handsome man with black hair and a navy blue blazer was walking toward them from another table, flashing a brilliant smile.

Crowley groaned.

‘Why of all the fucking places do you have to be here?’

Anathema blinked a few times as she connected the dots. She wasn’t a particular fan of popular music, but Newt had shared some of his favourites with her and not all of them were horrible.

‘Landon Clavette?’ she asked. ‘Landon of London?’

‘Oh, what, you know him now?’ Crowley demanded in exasperation.

‘How do you do?’ the Landon Clavette asked as he took her hand gently. He then turned to look at Crowley. ‘Is this beautiful creature why you turned down Allie’s offer?’

Crowley rested his head in his hands. With one hand he made a sweeping gesture away from him. ‘Go away. Stalker. Leave me alone.’

Landon smiled at him sadly and straightened up to his full height.

‘I’m really terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, I’ll just…’

‘Oh my god,’ Anathema said softly. ‘Newt won’t believe this.’ She took her bag and began rummaging through it. Louder, she said, ‘Um, if it’s not too much trouble, before you go, my boyfriend is a big fan of yours, would you mind signing…?’

Landon smiled again. There was a flash of recognition at the phrase _my boyfriend_. Anathema didn’t have time to decipher it. ’Of course.’

Anathema found a pen in her bag, now to find something she wouldn’t mind giving up to Newt.

‘If you don’t mind my asking, how do you two know each other?’

‘Met at a bar one night,’ Landon replied amiably. ‘Your friend has a lovely singing voice, you know.’

Of all the things he could have said, that probably surprised Anathema the most. She paused as she looked over the demon, who was already rolling his eyes obviously behind his sunglasses and taking in a breath to refute the claim.

‘You have extremely low standards,’ Crowley shot back. ‘Was drunk and you were annoying so I was just trying to drown you out. Haven’t you been having an incredible streak of bad luck recently? Could it be - gasp - related to you constantly bothering me?’

Landon’s smile finally faded. ‘You know, come to mention it, someone did steal my credit card recently.’

Anathema shot Crowley a glare.

‘Of course, the company immediately realised it wasn’t me and put a hold on my account before anything too bad could happen, so no harm done.’

‘Nothing else? That’s it?’ Crowley sneered. ‘No guitar tuning pegs slipping every time you touch it? Mic constantly having feedback issues? Smartphone battery unable to hold a charge?’

‘Crowley!’ Anathema chided.

‘’M a demon, it’s what I do,’ he shrugged.

‘How did you know about all that?’ Landon laughed.

‘It’s karma for annoying me.’

Anathema frowned at him, but he seemed rather pleased with himself. She wondered if he’d be this irritable if Aziraphale was here.

Finally, she found a pad of orange sticky notes in her bag and pulled them out. She pulled the top one ( _butter, eggs, dish soap_ \- when did she even write that? Months ago, probably) off and handed the pad and a pen to Landon.

‘I’m… sorry about the way he’s acting,’ she said hesitantly. It wasn’t really her job to apologise for his behaviour, but she did feel a certain pity for this poor human who, though talented and successful, seemed too dense to understand when he was being rejected.

‘I understand, we all have our off days,’ he grinned back.

‘Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,’ Crowley snapped.

‘He’s lost someone close to him recently,’ Anathema continued as though he hadn’t said anything.

‘Oh,’ Landon said, his smile finally fading as he looked pityingly at Crowley.

‘Don’t look at me like that. I’ll… I’ll… you know, I’ve never given anyone allergies before. I bet that would be funny.’

He held up his hand, fingers poised to snap. Anathema dropped everything and dove across the table to grab his hand before he could snap his fingers.

‘Don’t you dare,’ she glared. ‘I have a cousin with severe food allergies. He’s miserable, he can’t join the rest of the family for any holiday meals, can’t eat out without calling and allowing the kitchen time to prepare hours in advance…’

‘I wasn’t going to give him a food allergy,’ Crowley said. ‘I was going to give him an allergy to air.’

Anathema growled and began to yell at him, if Aziraphale would be happy to hear of Crowley’s behaviour if he could see him now. That did give Crowley some pause before he responded in a sulking tone he’d seen the angel do worse to people who tried to buy his books.

Landon laughed, truly unaware of the real danger he was in. The waiter came around and made Anathema self-conscious enough to sit back in her seat. Certainly, many patrons of the restaurant were giving their group funny looks now. Landon, meanwhile, turned and asked another table if he could borrow their chair.

‘Landon — Mr. Clavette, I’m really sorry, I don’t think this is a good place for you to be right now,’ she said with alarm as he pulled the chair over and sat between her and the demon.

‘It’s fine,’ he said dismissively, turning his attention back to the pad of sticky notes and asking, ‘Who do I make this out to?’

Anathema glanced at Crowley in his silent annoyance before answering. He was calm - for now.

‘Newton,’ she replied, then spelled it out for him. ‘He tried to get me to see one of your shows in October, but, you know, life got in the way. He went, though. I just… didn’t accompany him.’

‘Sorry to hear you couldn’t make it,’ Landon said. ‘Did he enjoy it, at least? Your boyfriend?’

‘He did, very much,’ Anathema smiled. ‘He said the way you performed… oh, I can’t remember the name. The song about the boy being haunted by the ghosts of his past regrets. He said the way you screamed at the end… It gave him chills. Every time it comes up on Spotify Newt moans that the live performance was better.’

‘I’m so glad to hear that!’ Landon said excitedly. ‘That’s actually one of my favourites. My producers, though, they prefer the squeaky-clean version. I’ve been pushing them to let me do a bit more of that sort of thing - actually, wouldn’t you know it, the other day, I mentioned possibly rerecording that very song - ah, but since it came out only a year ago, not enough time has passed to rerecord it, they said. They’d rather have new stuff. Also, you know, don’t want to scare away the younger demographics by adding that harder edge to my sound, it doesn’t matter that this is my art or my message, all they care about is marketability…’

Anathema watched Crowley become more attentive at the sound of scaring people away.

Landon finished writing and handed the pad of sticky notes and the pen back to Anathema with a sad grin.

‘You don’t look like the sort to scream and write about ghosts,’ Crowley finally said, seemingly incapable of keeping that thought inside, even if it meant prolonging their conversation.

‘No, I don’t suppose I do,’ Landon chuckled as he stood and gave the neighbouring table back their chair. ‘Because I smile all the time, right?’

Crowley shrugged in a way that looked like it was supposed to look nonchalant.

‘Writing music has really helped me deal with a lot of things.’

Landon smiled one last time as he turned to go back to his previous table. He took one step before he turned back around.

‘I’m really sorry to hear about your loss. I understand, losing someone you love is tough.’

And finally, he left.

-

In retrospect, Anathema kicked herself for allowing Landon Clavette to remain in Crowley’s presence for so long. The demon clearly didn’t like him and Anathema had no idea the extent of Crowley’s power. So far, it seemed he was content to just do trivial things to annoy the singer, but she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself if he actually hurt him.

Well, it was possible they wouldn’t cross paths again.

Anathema hung up her coat when she got home and sat her bag down on the chair at the kitchen table.

Honestly, today had not been very conducive at all to the search for Aziraphale. Earlier, she’d asked the demon for an item of the angel’s and today Crowley had produced an enormous book out of seemingly nowhere and let it crash onto the table, nearly knocking over Anathema’s glass of water.

Anathema hadn’t had to look closely at the book to know it wouldn’t work and told the demon so. He complained - it’s an item and it belongs to him, I found it in his bookshop - and Anathema had clarified, it couldn’t just be a thing that existed in the same space as the angel, it had to be something of his that he used regularly and had special sentimental value to him. So Crowley dropped a pen on the table, an old and heavy thing that looked as though it might need an inkwell, instead of being one of the fast and cheap pens Anathema herself preferred to use. Still not good enough, Anathema said. Then Crowley had pulled an old and musty blanket from seemingly nowhere and dumped it on the table.

Still no.

Crowley did not start in the greatest of moods but the look on his face soured significantly then. He growled and called Anathema a charlatan and finally reached into his jacket’s inner breast pocket and produced a single long white feather.

It was almost sweet how deliberately and carefully he pulled it out, holding it gingerly and not dropping it with the same carelessness as he had with the other three items.

Anathema had reached out slowly so as not to give the demon any reason to pull away. She suspected if she treated it with any less reverence than he did, he was liable to grow even more irritable.

There was definitely magic in the feather, she could feel that with certainty, though it was faint.

She held it back out to Crowley before she told him what she knew he didn’t want to hear.

 _Sorry, it has to be something that meant something to him,_ she told him, _that he’d be attached to and think about and potentially want back. Something he’s tied to. This feather…_

She paused. She wasn’t normally one for censoring herself, but she knew if she told him the truth, that she could feel Crowley more through it than from the person whom it had come from, she risked being cursed by whatever annoying hexes he’d cast on Landon Clavette.

 _This feather is like a shed hair or piece of dead skin,_ she said. _Aziraphale doesn’t care for it or particularly want it back. It was practically garbage to him. The feeling I get from y— from the other items is much stronger._

Crowley had snatched the feather out of her hands and put it back inside his jacket pocket so quickly she didn’t even have time to process it until it was out of sight.

So… not helpful.

-

1988

-

The concert had been just like old times. Aziraphale finally stood down after the standing ovation, a broad grin lighting up his face. Crowley couldn’t help but grin back, though he didn’t stand.

‘I do say, that was perhaps even better than the original performance in one hundred years ago! The violins, they sounded as though everyone’s heart could feel it - everyone was completely in sync. Pyotr would be proud,’ Aziraphale beamed.

Crowley laughed. The lights came back on and people began gathering their things to leave, though Crowley made no indication of wanting to move from his place.

‘It didn’t sound fake to you at all?’ he asked.

‘Fake?’ Aziraphale repeated, placing a dainty hand over his heart as though this was the most outrageous accusation he’d ever heard.

‘That fourth movement. Too cheery. Doesn’t match the tone of the rest of the piece. The triumph in the finale sounds forced, insincere,’ Crowley sniffed.

‘You’re just saying that because you know he revised it,’ Aziraphale replied with equal arrogance. ‘If you hadn’t known, you’d never be able to tell. Ohh, I’ll have that waltz stuck in my head for the rest of the month… it’s so lovely. My heart is still racing with the excitement of the finale, whether you like it or not.’

Crowley propelled himself out of his seat with a snake-like grace.

‘Care to debate it over a drink?’ he asked with a grin. He wondered briefly what it would be like to actually waltz with Aziraphale. Probably not good - the demon himself couldn’t waltz worth shit. And the angel… probably wasn’t that much better, judging by what Crowley knew of him already.

To his dismay, the angel’s face fell. He began fidgeting with his cuff links, avoiding Crowley’s gaze.

‘Oh, Crowley, you know I’d love to, but, you know, I have a customer coming early to the bookshop tomorrow morning, and I thought, you know, I’d actually attempt to at least search for the book in question…’

‘Fine, got it,’ Crowley shrugged with more nonchalance than he felt.

He turned and began to leave the theatre.

Almost everyone had exited already and was lingering in the lobby. It was a grand thing, white and pristine, with velvety green carpeting and a massive chandelier hovering above their heads. Crowley made his way past the crowds of people, seeing already where he wanted to be.

Too crowded inside. Even before he made his way to the lobby, he could already feel tired of all the people chatting and having fun.

Outside was much quieter. The chill of the November air was biting, so Crowley miracled the air around him to be a bit warmer.

Aziraphale finally caught up to him outside, panting slightly at having jogged the remainder of the distance once he recognised his demon. Crowley was leaning against the railing of the bridge, staring up into the night sky.

‘You know,’ he said without turning as Aziraphale approached, ‘I’m all in favour of electricity and all that, but you can hardly see the stars anymore.’

‘It is a pity,’ Aziraphale agreed once he’d caught his breath. ‘It really would have made this evening…’

Crowley looked over from the corner of his eye at Aziraphale as the latter fumbled for the right words.

‘…Spectacular,’ he finally settled on. ‘Even more so.’

They stood in silence for a moment, simply enjoying the company of one another. Crowley wondered briefly what Aziraphale would have said, had he not cut himself off. He did have to agree, stars would have made the evening dream-like, like a scene from a film. Which film, Crowley wasn’t sure of, but it definitely belonged in a film. The two leads, standing on a bridge that overlooked the deep blue sky littered with specks of light from galaxies away, sharing a companionable silence between them as they still glowed with the echoes of the concert they’d just seen…

 _It’s romantic,_ part of his brain whispered before he could shove that thought away.

‘Did you notice?’ he asked softly.

Aziraphale turned his whole body to look at Crowley.

‘What, dear?’

‘In the second movement, the andante cantabile, one of the violas in the back started on an up bow. Clearly didn’t get the memo it was down,’ Crowley snickered.

 _‘Really,’_ Aziraphale frowned. ‘He changed quickly once he realised.’

‘Prob’ly thought no one would notice.’

‘No one _did_ notice.’

‘I did, and the conductor undoubtedly did,’ Crowley shrugged. ‘I bet he’ll be kicked out before the night is over, such a grievous error! Down bows and up bows have a completely different colour to ‘em—’

‘He started from mid-bow, dear, it wasn’t all that bad—‘

‘Ruined the entire night for me.’

Crowley turned with his back to the railing to give the Aziraphale a wide grin to let him know he was joking. Still, the angel clicked his tongue in disapproval.

‘You still have yet to play piano for me,’ Crowley teased.

Aziraphale drew himself up all at once like the stuffy git he tried to embody.

‘I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about—’

‘You said 278 years ago that you could play the piano—’

‘I said I dabbled in it,’ Aziraphale protested. Crowley turned and leaned back against the railing once more. ‘Just for a spell. Wasn’t anything serious, and I’ve certainly forgotten anything I did learn. Which, I might remind you, was two hundred. And seventy-eight. Years ago.’

‘C’mon, angel, you’ve heard me try my hand at music, it’s about time we even the playing field.’

‘I… don’t remember your performance that well,’ Aziraphale said, though he was clearly lying. Before Crowley could tell Aziraphale he knew as much, the angel was speaking again.

‘What was it you played? Paganini?’

Crowley whirled around to stare in disbelief.

‘You think I could manage Paganini?!’ he nearly shouted. ‘Must really not remember it at all.’

Aziraphale shrugged. ‘I already said as much, dear boy.’

Crowley scrunched his face in disgust. Or perhaps it was disappointment at how Aziraphale could forget. Well, it was reasonable that he would forget. It was very long ago indeed.

‘If you could perform again, what would you choose?’ Aziraphale asked.

Crowley threw his arms in the air, shaking his head. ‘Black Angel’s Death Song,’ he finally answered.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know that one, dear.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ Crowley muttered.

‘I’m partial to Schubert, myself,’ Aziraphale sighed dreamily.

‘I know.’

He knew, he knew which symphonies and quartets Aziraphale was partial to. He knew, even if the angel might not be aware of it, that the angel seemed particularly taken with pieces written in the key of A minor. He knew the angel (rightly) preferred strings to woodwinds and brass. Probably not a fan of Queen, though.

‘Thought you said you had to be leaving,’ Crowley finally said softly, barely audible in the cool night air.

Aziraphale paused. ‘So I did.’

‘Well, if you’re not going, can I still tempt you to that drink?’

‘I’m afraid not, dear.’

Still, neither of them made any indication of moving.

And neither of them moved until well after the sun had risen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concert they went to see was a performance of Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony.


	3. Chapter 3

Present Day

-

Sometimes Anathema wondered if she’d have better luck trying to pull Crowley’s teeth out than trying to get him to say anything meaningful. Not that she’d know what to do with his teeth if she got them.

He wanted to help, that much was clear. She could see he wanted to, but that was the problem. There was a severe disconnect between _wanting_ to and actually being of any help.

‘You don’t have to be so secretive, you know,’ she said. It was meant to come out as comforting, but the bite in her voice betrayed the annoyance she felt.

The serpent of Eden pursed his lips but otherwise remained silent. It had taken months to get him to agree to take her to the bookshop where he said the angel lived, and even then, Crowley had insisted on a mountain of conditions Anathema almost immediately forgot as soon as she’d agreed to them.

‘I’m trying to help you. You contacted me to help you.’

‘Don’t touch anything inside,’ he warned as though he hadn’t heard her. He stood in front of the door on the corner of the old bookshop, staring down at her from the steps like an oddly lanky bouncer.

‘I can’t promise that,’ she snapped.

‘And don’t try to walk away with anything inside or I _will_ know about it and curse you and any future children you might have, and anyone they become friends with, and—’

‘I get it,’ she rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t touch anything, don’t pick anything up, don’t step on anything, don’t look at anything, don’t breathe.’

He actually smiled then.

‘Good to know we’re on the same page.’

He finally turned around and opened the doors with a flashy snap of his fingers.

‘You know I can’t actually do that and be of any help, right?’ she asked as she followed him inside.

The bookshop was dark. As soon as Anathema’s eyes adjusted from the bright light outside, what she saw was a rather cozy space, lined with shelves and display cases (packed to the brim, every last one of them) and littered with more books than she’d ever seen in her life. It smelled of old paper and mildew, and the dim light filtered in through closed blinds.

Anathema adjusted her glasses and looked around at any remaining traces of aura around the room. There was a certain feeling she got from the space to the left, something like warmth but without the physical aspect to it (it was, in fact, quite cold inside). She stepped forward to follow the subtle sensation, around the bookcases, stacks of more books, and an antique cash register, coming upon a space with slightly fewer books and more furniture.

‘Did he spend a lot of time around here?’ she asked.

Crowley’s eyebrows shot upward and then lowered again in a sneer.

‘Have you been here before?’

‘When on earth would I have been here before?’ she countered.

The demon made a face at her but kept his mouth shut.

‘This space feels more lived in,’ she commented as she walked further inside. The blanket Crowley had shown her at the restaurant was folded neatly on the sofa to her left, standing out against the other haphazard blankets.

‘I think I could definitely do work with the items in this part of the room,’ she said with a smile. This was the first time she actually felt as though she might be able to be of some use since Crowley had contacted her. ‘May I touch the desk?’

Crowley shifted on his feet, sneering again. He looked conflicted. He gave her no answer.

‘I can’t do anything if I can’t interact with this space,’ she explained. If he were human, she’d have disregarded all his stupid rules immediately. But as much as Crowley evoked the thought ‘all bark and no bite’ in Anathema, she was a witch, and knew better than to purposely piss off demons of hell. ‘There’s no reason to bring me all the way out here and let me get so close if I can’t actually work here.’

The demon growled and finally turned away.

‘You may.’

‘Good answer,’ Anathema couldn’t stop herself from saying as she sat down at the desk. It was terribly dusty. She blew gently on the layer of filth, which turned out to be a mistake because that just sent it airborne and back into her lungs. She began coughing.

‘You promised you wouldn’t breathe!’ Crowley shouted.

‘Yeah, well, I’m human, I can’t just stop breathing,’ she retorted. She attempted to fan some of the dust away with her hands. ‘How long has he been gone? This is years’ worth of dust.’

‘Oh, yeah, it’s always like that,’ he answered thoughtfully.

_‘Why?!’_

Crowley shrugged. ‘I dunno, he likes it like that, I s’pose.’

Anathema frowned at him.

‘You’re a _demon.’_

The demon in question raised his eyebrows over his sunglasses.

‘Congratulations on figuring it out. ’S’not like I told you as much a year ago or anything.’

‘I just… I don’t really understand. Saving the world, that’s one thing, I suppose, but the _reverence_ with which you treat his things, his space…’

She stopped as Crowley appeared to grow agitated.

‘It’s just… it’s his, alright? It’s not mine, I don’t get any say in how it’s laid out. He wouldn’t come to my flat and muss it up with his books and cocoa and pastries and I don’t come to his bloody bookshop and clean.’

Anathema rolled her eyes.

She couldn’t exactly pinpoint a single thing in the room he was attached to, but the energy of the room itself was enough, she felt, to get to work. She set down her bag and pulled her pendulum from it.

‘Would you let him?’ she asked casually.

‘What are you going on about?’

She glanced back at him, the sour expression that was evident even with his dark glasses on. She wondered if he understood his own feelings.

‘Would you let him go to your apartment and bring his books? And his cocoa and pastries,’ she clarified as she returned her focus to the pendulum swinging from her left hand.

There was no answer, which was something of an answer in and of itself.

‘You do come here regularly, though,’ she went on. ‘Even though you said he’s been gone for months. What do you do here, then, if you don’t clean? And why go to the trouble of folding that blanket—’

The demon turned and stomped away.

It was rude, but Anathema breathed a sigh of relief. The tension he radiated was suffocating.

She got to work.

-

In a way, Crowley was aware of how much he was letting his anxiety get the better of him. He knew it was probably easily interpreted by the witch - though to what extent, he certainly wasn’t aware.

He left her to do her work. He’d meant to watch over her to make sure she followed his rules to the letter, but in all honesty, he knew she was a human of her word. Anathema could be annoyingly perceptive but she seemed to understand the level of respect he demanded she take of the shop.

He wandered the shop instead, always keeping Anathema in the corner of his eye. The books he had no interest in, no matter how they delighted the angel. Instead, he replayed memories. He could almost hear Aziraphale on the other side of the shelf, humming to himself, or muttering things under his breath. Crowley remembered once, a lazy evening. His hair had been longer, and had miraculously curled in an appealing way when he awoke without the help of an actual miracle, and he had actually considered himself to be a ‘she’ for that pleasant summer. She’d worn a long skirt, solid black, and felt adventurous enough to wear it paired with a luxurious green blouse (well, _she’d_ considered it green. Aziraphale had said it was black with dark green accents, but what did he know? For one, he hadn’t changed his clothes in almost two centuries and two, Crowley only ever wore black, so if something had even a hint of green to it, it became known in her mind as ‘the green shirt.’).

She hadn’t seen Aziraphale in months, not once since she’d decided she was tired of being ‘he’ and due for a change. He’d certainly looked mildly surprised when she stopped by, as surprised as he ever did when she dropped in so suddenly.

She draped herself over the sofa and complained about how bored she was until the angel put down his books, closed the shop and asked if she’d like to accompany him to go get dinner. Crowley had readily agreed, this being her wish all along.

Aziraphale was in the mood, it turned out, for Indian curry that evening, so Crowley drove them to the best place he knew of. They’d sat down and ordered, chatting about their latest miracles and temptations, about music and the bookshop, television and books. Crowley laughed and grinned as Aziraphale told his stories. I’m never bored as long as he’s here, she thought as she leaned forward with her elbows resting on the table and her chin propped up against her hands. The waiter had brought out their plates of curry with naan and small mounds of yellow rice shaped into neat little hearts and Crowley nearly had her own heart attack as he set them down before them. She quickly grabbed a fork and began smashing the heart on her plate, grinding it into a yellow paste in her embarrassment.

_Y-You don’t have to do that,_ Aziraphale had said softly.

She was too mortified to hear him properly. She wasn’t even sure she _could_ stop, even if Aziraphale grabbed her hand, she suspected she’d have fought him tooth and nail until nothing recognisable was left of that — that _symbol_ on her plate.

It was stupid. They were _friends_. Best friends, thank you very much. She was quite happy with what they had, what they were as it existed in this moment and time, she didn’t need this presumptuous human imposing human ideas onto her. And what was Aziraphale to think? That she’d dressed up specially this way just for him? What if he thought she was actually trying to seduce him? This place had been her suggestion, after all (well, yes, he’d suggested curry but she’d brought him _here_ ). It was preposterous. She suddenly felt painfully aware of her skirt and wished she’d dressed differently.

She just didn’t want anything to change between them. She was lucky to know him, to be such close friends with him. Eternity would be dreadful without someone to rely on. Humans had their families and whatnot - what did Crowley have? Hell wasn’t much of a family or a home. She could make friends easily enough, but at the end of the day she needed something consistent to rely on.

Consistency was Aziraphale. He never changed, and though sometimes he poked at the fact she was a demon, it usually didn’t bother her, or she was at least able to argue for… whatever it was she was trying to convince him to do. Tempting was her job, after all. She trusted him, she enjoyed his company. She felt comforted in his presence. Okay, maybe sometimes she wondered what it would be like to fall asleep next to him as he read, resting her head on his shoulder, maybe draping her arm across his chest so her hand rested on his other shoulder… and if he, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, wrapped his arm (the one not holding his book) protectively around her, accepting her, she couldn’t object.

She shoved that thought out of her mind almost as quickly as it had come to her. Now was not the time. It just made her stupid human ribcage ache to think about. It was never going to happen anyway. Remember 1967?

Never. Going. To. Happen.

She was lucky just to have what she had.

Aziraphale had begun talking and was trying to distract from Crowley’s current endeavour, smashing the stupid little heart into oblivion, and Crowley slowly came out of her own head enough to listen to him and join in proper conversation once more. All in all, it was a fun evening after that. Well, until the check came and the waiter refused to let Crowley have it, handing it to Aziraphale and insisting ‘the man must pay for dates.’

It had taken all of Aziraphale’s willpower to convince Crowley not to burn the entire restaurant down.

-

Crowley laughed softly to himself as he remembered Aziraphale’s eyes lit up in alarm as he tugged the demon back.

He wondered if that day had anything to do with the angel’s disappearance, though in which direction he had no idea.

Was Aziraphale upset that Crowley had dressed up, taken him to a place that gave them food in heart shapes, and that he was forced to pay? Not that money was ever really any sort of issue for them, and Aziraphale had refused to let Crowley even look at the receipt, but he was an angel and he was supposed to be all goody-two-shoes about shit like that. He was expected to fight for the bill.

Was Aziraphale upset that Crowley had squished the heart? Not that it was likely - yes, angels are beings of love and love everything and everyone - but what if Aziraphale did love him back - well, not ‘back,’ you know, because Crowley is a demon and loves nothing, and… you get it - but… what if… just for the sake of argument, _what if_ Aziraphale was offended by the gesture?

It happened years ago, but Crowley had enough experience with people to know sometimes things festered and maybe something else, maybe something in their last conversation made him remember that, and that’s why he left without rhyme or reason, without any warning or at least a ‘goodbye.’

‘Crowley?’

Crowley didn’t move from his place on the floor with his back to the bookcase, waiting for Anathema to find him. She did, eventually, looking down at him with her hands on her hips.

‘What on earth are you doing there?’

‘Sitting.’

He couldn’t be bothered to muster the energy to stand.

Anathema looked as though she might say something about that, but instead knelt in front of him.

‘Being able to work here helped a lot. However, wherever the angel is, he’s far enough away that my magic can’t really detect him. I’m pretty sure he’s not in England, but that’s all I was able to figure out.’

Crowley wasn’t really surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised.

‘What are you doing the rest of the day?’ she asked when he said nothing.

Crowley thought about it. He’d had a half-baked plan to annoy people in the park, but as of right now it seemed like it would take too much energy to execute. In all reality, he imagined he’d just sleep some more. Probably on the sofa on the other side of the room. Might as well, it was right there.

‘I’d like you to help me with something back at my cottage,’ she said when he didn’t answer.

Before he knew it, she’d gotten him to his feet and they both were in his Bentley, her sitting in Aziraphale’s seat and searching through his music collection for something that wasn’t secretly Queen.

‘Do you just buy CDs and write over them with the same album over and over?’ she demanded, waving the case that said ‘Mozart’ and ‘Requiem in D Minor’ in the air. The CD itself was in the CD player, blasting Queen.

‘’S not me, ’s the car,’ Crowley grumbled. ‘Just happens.’

‘What do you mean, it just happens?’

At least Anathema seemed a little less confident in herself when Crowley was going near 100mph, which made himself feel a bit more at ease.

‘I mean, any CD left in this car for over a fortnight turns into Queen. I can’t help it. Lost a good many CDs to this thing. Even gifts.’

‘Gifts?’ Anathema repeated.

Crowley rummaged with one hand through the glove box until it came up with a dark CD marked in the top left-hand corner with the words ‘Dir en grey’ and ‘Vulgar.’ Anathema took it and looked it over, confused.

‘That was a gift,’ he said, pointing an accusatory finger at it.

Anathema held it gingerly. She wasn’t quite sure what she’s supposed to make of it. She’d never heard of the band before, wasn’t sure of the connection she felt she was supposed to be making with the way Crowley was shooting it furious glares out of the corner of his eye.

‘…Okay. You liked it?’

‘Hated it,’ Crowley shook his head. ‘Hot garbage. I know I’m a demon, but seriously, sometimes humans disgust me.’

Anathema had no idea what to make of this information.

‘So, why are you angry if it got… turned into Queen? I mean, I’m guessing it is Queen now.’

‘Because Aziraphale gave it to me,’ Crowley admits softly. ‘“Saw them and thought it might be up your alley,” he said.’ Crowley lilted his voice up and used a rather gentle posh British accent to imitate his friend. Anathema didn’t remember the angel terribly well, but somehow she didn’t doubt it sounded just like him. ‘I mean, I don’t like it, and I’m sure _he_ didn’t like it, but… he was thinking of me, and he thought it would make me happy. He clearly didn’t meet Kyo. Horrible train wreck of a person, I’m not even sure a miracle could fix him. Though I suppose that’s true of most modern musicians.’

‘You run into a lot of musicians,’ she commented.

Crowley stammered a bit and finally shrugged something that sounded like an agreement, keeping his eyes fully on the road.

‘Ah, nn, well… nyeh.’

Anathema wondered how many humans he’d let know the truth about him, how many knew this much about him, as much like pulling teeth as it was.

-

They arrived in Tadfield in the late afternoon. Crowley didn’t seem to have much trouble finding Jasmine Cottage again and parked outside, blocking Newt’s Wasabi in the driveway until Anathema made him redo it so it was parked in front of the lawn instead.

‘Anathema!’ several approaching voices called out over the barking of a dog.

Anathema and Crowley looked over to see four children and a dog running up. The children stopped, eyeing Crowley with unease.

‘Welcome home, Anathema,’ Wensleydale said pleasantly over the tension.

‘You’re the one from the airbase,’ Adam said. He looked neither happy nor scared to see Crowley. What he said was simply fact.

Crowley leaned an elbow over the roof of his car and smirked. Anathema tried to recall the last time she’d seen him smile, if ever. ‘Antichrist. Never thought I’d see you again.’

‘I’m not the antichrist anymore.’

‘You’re a demon, right?’ Pepper cut in.

‘That I am.’

‘Where are you horns? And tail?’ she demanded.

Crowley threw his head back and laughed. ‘That’s _so_ last millennia. Gotta keep up with the times, Little War.’

‘But, like, could you have them? If you wanted to?’

‘Possibly. But I don’t want to.’

‘Can you do magic?’ Brian asked.

A pained look crossed Crowley’s face. Anathema stepped up, ready to rescue him with a change of topic, when he held up his hand and snapped his slender fingers.

‘What happened?’ Brian asked, then looked startled. He looked around, then rubbed his ears with a look of confusion.

‘What’s wrong, Brian?’ Adam said.

‘I can’t hear anything,’ the dark-haired boy answered in increasing alarm. He began humming loudly in a panic. Adam and Pepper each put a hand on his shoulder, scared in their uncertainty of what to do.

‘What did you do?’ Anathema turned to glare at Crowley..

The demon smiled, then walked forward.

‘Kid,’ he said. ‘Hold still, I think I know what’s going on.’

He knelt before the boy and reached up to his ears, pulling a coin from each one to the children’s incredulity, and handing them to the boy in question. He stood and crossed his arms, somehow looking both pleased with himself and pained at the same time. The others gathered around Brian. Brian was smiling wide, able to hear once more.

‘Stop hoarding coins in your ears,’ Crowley sighed.

‘What on earth did you do that for?’ Anathema hissed in a low voice. ‘I didn’t bring you here to scare them.’

The kids laughed and examined the coins more closely, passing them back and forth between them as though they were anything more than a bit of metal Crowley had slipped from his own pocket without the use of any sort of magic.

‘Why did you bring me here, then?’

Anathema pursed her lips. She was beginning to rethink her idea of helping Crowley by distracting him.

‘I… I thought I could use your help, with some of the magic tools I have here.’

The demon groaned theatrically with a movement of his eyebrows that said he was rolling his eyes beneath his sunglasses.

Despite this, the children surrounded Crowley and began asking to see more magic, and to Anathema’s surprise, he agreed.

‘Don’t hurt them,’ she said immediately before he could do anything more than say ‘alright.’

‘I didn’t,’ Crowley protested, and the others heartily agreed.

‘Don’t scare them, either.’

There was an outcry from everyone at that. _We’re not scared, we can’t be scared,_ from the kids, and _what fun is that?_ from the demon in question.

‘I’m going to go inside,’ Anathema said, then, ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

The warning she had originally meant for the children, but at the last moment, she looked at Crowley as well, staring pointedly at him to indicate she fully meant to include him in her warning.

Everyone agreed.

Anathema hesitantly left, keeping a half eye on them from her window and urging Newt to do the same when she greeted him as she walked in. As the sky grew pink, they witnessed Crowley showing off more magic tricks, having arm wrestling competitions (him vs. the four of them at once), telling animated stories to the rapt attention of his audience, and acting equally interested in the stories they seemed to be telling him.

Eventually, though, the children had to go home and eat their suppers. Newt hesitantly opened the door as Crowley waved goodbye to Adam.

‘You’re welcome to come inside and eat with us, if you’d like,’ he said.

Truth be told, the demon scared him a bit. There was no discernible expression on his face as he turned to look at Newt.

‘It’s, ah, spaghetti, if you’re interested,’ Newt added in his discomfort. ‘Uh, there’s no garlic or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. Or, well, it’s available, but I did keep it separate while I was making the sauce, you know, just in case.’

Crowley actually laughed then; Newt nervously chuckled back, not sure in which direction Crowley’s laughter had been.

‘Not hungry, but you invitation to come in and eat has been duly noted.’

Newt felt a cold sweat forming even though Anathema told him repeatedly they’d be perfectly safe if they invited him inside.

‘C’mon. This is the second time you’ve seen me outside in direct sunlight,’ Crowley smirked.

‘Er… indeed,’ Newt agreed with little conviction. ‘Anyhow, we’re inside.’

Newt stepped back into the house slowly, but Crowley made no move to follow.

‘Is there something wrong?’ Anathema called from the other room.

In a moment, she was visible in the doorway alongside Newt.

‘…D’ruther stay out here,’ Crowley shrugged.

It took a great deal of talking, but eventually Anathema and Newt found themselves agreeing, for no reason they could actually comprehend, to eat outside. Newt grabbed the food and Anathema moved the chairs and a small table. It was summer and a comfortable enough temperature to eat outside. Crowley made no move to help them, playing on his phone as they made sure everything was set up.

Newt offered him a plate, but Crowley refused it.

‘Do you ever eat?’ Anathema finally asked as she sat down with her plate.

‘When ‘m hungry,’ he shrugged without putting down his phone.

‘What, exactly, do you eat?’ Newt inquired. Something about the over-causal way he asked sounded to Crowley that answers like ‘human souls’ or ‘spaghetti, but remove the tomato sauce and replace it with blood and take out the spaghetti and replace it with intestines’ would have been nodded at politely without further question.

Crowley shrugged. ‘I had toast this morning.’

‘Toast,’ Newt repeated.

‘This morning?’ Anathema chose to focus on. ‘You haven’t eaten since then?’

‘Not hungry.’

‘Did you eat when Aziraphale was here?’

That gave the demon pause.

‘He liked—likes to eat,’ Crowley answered casually. Well, it might have been casual to the average passerby, but it was the softest Newt had ever heard him speak. Something about the lack of edge, the longing, the wistfulness and vulnerability in simply speaking without his normal flippant and sarcastic tone made Newt’s heart ache.

‘I, er, heard you singing earlier, with the kids,’ Newt said. That moment had actually caused Newt to abandon his cooking for a moment, to watch as the children stomped around as Crowley himself sang _We Will Rock You_ over them with a grin. ‘I tried to sing Queen once. It’s actually harder than it seems. Freddie Mercury makes it sound so easy. So do you, really. You’re quite good at singing.’

Crowley scrunched his face in distaste at the comment. ‘Why does everyone say that?’

‘Then there must be something to it,’ Anathema said flatly before taking a bite of her pasta.

‘There isn’t. If you’re around as long as I am, you just naturally become good at everything. NBD.’

‘Is it true you know Landon Clavette?’

Anathema put a hand over Newt’s, her expression somber. Too late, he realised, he shouldn’t have brought it up. He couldn’t help it, the question just came spilling out.

‘Annoying twat,’ Crowley sniffed. His tone was lighter than Newt would have anticipated. ‘Of all the people I’ve known, not my favourite. But yeah, I guess we’re friends.’

‘Friends?’ Anathema inquired. She was surprised. ‘Is that how you describe hexing him?’

‘I stopped doing that when he finally started messaging me memes that weren’t lame.’ Crowley frowned. ‘They should start teaching that in churches. How to remove a demon’s curse 101: send them good memes. And not old ones that we’ve all seen before. Even Hastur is getting sick of “You know I had to do it to ‘em” and he doesn’t even own a mobile. We want new ones.’

Neither Newt nor Anathema, who either could not use computers or had no time for that sort of nonsense, knew what to say.

‘That’s really cool, though, knowing Landon Clavette. I listen to his stuff all the time,’ Newt said wistfully. ‘It’s funny because he has that look of someone who’d just be popular with 14-year-olds, but when you listen to his music… I mean, I relate a lot to it. I don’t feel quite so alone hearing my thoughts put so eloquently.’

‘That profound, huh?’ Crowley asked. ‘Haven’t actually listened to his stuff. Other than just hearing him talk. He does a lot of that, talking. Don’t know when he finds time to breathe.’

Newt offered to play a sample of his favourite songs while Anathema and Crowley called after him, as he ran to get the bluetooth speaker from the den, that it was alright, they didn’t need to listen to it right now. Of course, as soon as he came back out, Newt’s smartphone couldn’t connect to the internet, which he bemoaned as his own curse with technology. Anathema rolled her eyes and said they were just too far away from the wifi router out here, that even _she_ couldn’t connect, but Newt was having none of it.

They (the humans) finished dinner and cleaned up as the sky grew black, with Crowley still refusing to enter the house. At some point, he’d pulled a bottle of whiskey and a tumbler from nowhere and began drinking, offering some to his hosts. Newt tentatively took some (while never seeming to actually drink it) while Anathema refused entirely. Crowley and Newt got to talking about cooking and TV shows, time which Anathema used to quickly try and find her crystals.

‘What do I do with this?’ Crowley asked skeptically when she handed him one. He held it in his right hand, the hand that wasn’t currently holding his drink. He seemed a slight bit tipsy, but she was sure it would be fine.

‘Think of Aziraphale,’ she said. She moved back and sat back down in the chair she was seated at during dinner.

‘…Kay.’

‘Now think of what he looks like.’

Crowley sat up a bit and shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

‘Can you describe him to me?’ Anathema said. ‘It helps to say it out loud.’

‘Ah, he’s… well… a bit shorter than me,’ Crowley began in obvious discomfort. ‘Whitish hair. Always wears light colours. Not really white, but those off colours with names like “cream” and “pearl” and “cloud” and whatever. He’s worn that stupid damn bowtie forever…’

‘What can you describe about him that’s not his clothing?’ Anathema cut in.

‘He…’ Crowley hesitated. ‘His eyes are blue. He smells like… like cologne, like sandalwood and vanilla, and… that thing used in Earl Grey tea. B… bug… Bernice…’

‘Bergamot?’ Anathema suggested.

‘Bergamot,’ Crowley agreed, ‘and old books. Kind of dusty, but… in a good way. Times change, but he’s always the same. Smells like… like home. Feels like home.’

Anathema saw a wistful look on the demon’s face in the darkness and couldn’t help from smiling sadly.

‘What if he doesn’t want me to find him?’ he blurted out suddenly, his attention suddenly pointed at her. ‘What if that’s why you can’t?’

Anathema frowned. That didn’t make a lot of sense to her.

‘You two seemed so close. Why wouldn’t he want you to?’

Crowley shook his head. ‘I… I don’t know. We weren’t always close. We’ve gone years without fighting before. I mean, speaking. Years without speaking. But we fought before then, we fought before we stopped speaking. I always knew why he was upset with me. I was asking for too much, back then. Did I ask for too much again?’

Anathema and Newt exchanged glances.

‘What did you ask for?’

‘I didn’t actually _ask_ him for anything,’ Crowley muttered. ‘Just said… just said, we’re on our own side, is all. Free of Heaven. And Hell. He seemed to agree.’

Crowley slumped down.

‘We were mistaken for a couple once. The server brought us rice shaped like hearts. I mashed it up. I wonder if he’s upset about that.’

Anathema declined to tell him that she had thought they were a couple when they first met.

‘How long ago was this?’ she asked.

‘Oh, a good… I dunno, fifteen years ago?’

‘I hardly think that’s reason to leave so suddenly, because of something that happened fifteen years ago,’ Newt chimed in. ‘Did he say anything then?’

Crowley glanced to the side. ‘He said… said, “You don’t have to do that.” I thought he was just pretending to be civil. Being civil. Always very civil when we were around others. I don’t know.’

‘I don’t think that’s it,’ Anathema frowned.

‘But how would you feel if Newt did that when you went out to eat?’

Anathema and Newt looked at each other.

‘I don’t… think I’d care?’ Anathema responded honestly. ‘I mean, it’s his rice, he can do what he wants with it.’

‘I don’t particularly like rice, though,’ Newt chimed in helpfully. ‘So I wouldn’t have ordered it and it wouldn’t have happened.’

Crowley groaned and fell backward into his seat in a way that didn’t look particularly comfortable.

It took a while to get back on track. The crystals didn’t seem to be doing anything, though whether this was because Crowley wasn’t focusing properly, Aziraphale was too far away, or simply that Anathema had never witnessed the crystals ever work before, she couldn’t say. Eventually she packed up her things, offering to let Crowley stay in the guest bedroom for the night, but he declined and got back into his antique Bentley and drove off into the night.

-

A few weeks ago

-

Crowley didn’t particularly want to take Landon’s calls but it just got so annoying that one morning (well, four in the afternoon) he opened a bleary eye and thought in his half-awake state that maybe if he answered and let Landon say whatever he needed to get out of his system, he’d just leave him alone.

Landon sounded absolutely _delighted_ that Crowley had finally picked up and began excitedly reading him what he’d written so far of his new song.

Crowley groaned. It was absolutely garbage.

‘What do you think?’ Landon asked brightly as though he hadn’t heard Crowley’s groan. ‘I just can’t think of a good end beyond that. I suppose I could just circle back and sing the chorus two more times, but it feels empty. It feels like it’s missing something.’

‘Garbage,’ Crowley grumbled. ‘Why did I even—’

‘Yeah, I had that thought, too, but you need to start _somewhere_ , am I right? I’m comforted by the thought that it at least can’t get any worse than this.’

Crowley thought about it a moment, then snapped his fingers and one of the books from his office was beside him.

‘Here. This.’

He opened the book to a random page and announced in a clear voice, ‘It’s something that we likely lose track of when we start…’ He glanced at the rest of the page, closed it quickly and opened it back up again. ‘I don’t believe that a fraction of the things that can be done have been done… Trust the text implicitly; the answers are in there… There is an abundance of conjectures as to the circumstances of his life and death… They left that checkpoint with him covered in blood…’

‘That’s, um, very lovely,’ Landon said in puzzlement. ‘Did you… did you write that earlier? Sounds like you’re reading it.’

‘I don’t read. And I don’t write. I’ve literally just picked up a book and am opening it to random pages and telling you the first thing I see. Better than what you’ve writ.’

Landon made a series of uncommitted sounds of disapproval. Crowley smiled at finally being able to frustrate him.

‘Anthony, that’s great, but I’m not entirely sure that’s… I mean…’

‘You said you wanted help. I’m helping.’

‘No, I—’

‘This makes exactly as much sense as any other poetry out there. People will hear “blood” and think it’s something deep and meaningful. Let the audience come to its own conclusion. If it means something to them then it means something to them, and you got away with it with minimal effort.’

‘It’s… it’s a love song, though,’ Landon protested. ‘Love songs should be from the heart.’

‘Never been in love, wouldn’t know,’ Crowley replied curtly. He let the book close and buried his face in his pillow once more.

‘Never?’ Landon repeated skeptically.

‘Nope. If that’s what you’re looking for, good luck elsewhere.’

‘What about… you know, the one who disappeared.’

Crowley opened his eyes into his pillow. He could remember that morning Aziraphale was here, how he’d woken up and seen the angel sitting beside him, just reading… how he’d smiled and said _good morning, dear_ , like they’d done this a thousand times before. What had he been reading? Had he miracled something from his bookshop? Crowley was so overcome with… warmth. Not love, mind you, demons don’t love, but a feeling of sweetness and contentedness…

‘Hello?’

‘That’s different,’ Crowley finally answered thickly.

‘How so?’

‘It just _is_ , alright? What I’ve heard you humans write, I don’t relate to it. Not exactly.’

‘What’s it like, then?’

‘It’s like…’ Crowley mulled his answer over. He hadn’t ever really thought to put his feelings into words before, especially not for a human to hear. ‘You know how there are some words in different languages that don’t translate over nicely? There’s no real equivalent that gets the exact feeling across? Or like, if there _was_ a dictionary definition that meant the same thing, you can’t use it in that context the way you want? Or it’s just… it’s like the wrong shape, the wrong colour…’

‘I only speak English, but sure,’ Landon agreed. Crowley groaned in frustration but went on anyway.

‘The first time I saw him, the very first time, I thought, “now here’s someone who needs to be put in his place. Knocked down a peg or two.” I certainly didn’t think anything positive about him at all. Meant to start an argument, really.’

‘Because he was so cute?’ Landon teased.

Crowley swore loudly and hung up.

-

Days later when Crowley finally answered Landon’s call again (well, he hadn’t answered it by choice, the voice recognition software had mistaken his shout of ‘reject call!’ with ‘answer’ somehow - ohh, he knew he should have left the engineers alone as they were designing this feature), Landon coaxed him into continuing only by promising not to cut in with his own conjectures.

‘He was kind, even when he didn’t have to be.’ Crowley sighed as he swerved his Bentley around a corner, startling a man who had been standing too close. ‘He had no reason to - in fact, he had more reasons to kick me than to help me - but what he did, that’s just who he was. And it didn’t matter to him if it was me or someone more like him, that’s just who he was. He would have treated anyone like that, but it just so happened that I was the one who… needed something. And he knew it, and without a word, he provided it, as he would have to anyone. He can be a bit of a selfish prick sometimes but that’s always… I guess, I always remember his capacity for understanding, even if we were on opposite sides. It took years for me to realise this wasn’t a fluke or an accident. Took longer to trust him, took even longer for him to actually trust me, but we always… enjoyed each other’s company, chatted about anything and everything. I found I enjoyed being around him, hearing his input. Yeah, fuck you, I had the right of way there!’ he yelled at another car before continuing. ‘If I had to be somewhere and knew he was going to be there as well, I looked forward to it like nothing else. If I thought I would see him and didn’t, I found myself disappointed. I didn’t want him, not in the way you’re thinking of, and I don’t remember an exact moment of “falling in love,” as it were, but I remember… once, something, er, rather big happened. ‘Bout a year ago. His home burned down. I actually thought he went up in flames right with it. But he was alright, and I offered him a place to stay, at my place.’

Crowley hesitated, perhaps longer than was safe when talking to someone like Landon when the last thing he said was that he offered to let someone sleep in the same space as he did. Luckily Landon seemed to understand that if he interrupted now, he’d never hear the conclusion.

‘I woke up, and the first thing I saw was him, and I remember, I thought… if I could wake up to this every day for the rest of eternity, I could… you know, I know I couldn’t guarantee I’d be happy 100% of the time because that’s unrealistic and a lot of pressure to put on another person, but… if I could wake up to this every day, if he was by my side, I would have the strength to face anything, anything at all that God or the world could throw at me.’

There was silence. Crowley was surprised, himself, at the raw honesty he’d just managed.

‘Anthony, my friend, there is absolutely a word for what you’re describing,’ Landon said amiably. ‘Gay.’

What Crowley wanted to say was that he wasn’t a man, not really. And he wasn’t interested in men, not like that. He liked Aziraphale, but not men in general. He wasn’t even particularly interested in Aziraphale in that way, as much as he cared for him. Angels and demons weren’t really built for that sort of thing. Even if he had let his curiosity get the better of him in the past and experimented with human partners, he didn’t really see what was so great about sex. Crowley thought broadly that one must have a greater interest in that sort of activity to be classified as gay.

But this came out in his conversation with Landon as, ‘Potayto, potahto.’

‘Anyhow, that really is something beautiful,’ Landon said as encouragingly as he could. ‘Do you mind if I use some of it? I’ll credit you for it.’

There were sounds of movement from Landon’s end, then strums from an acoustic guitar.

_‘If I could wake up every day like this_   
_Your smile the first thing I see_   
_If you were here by my side_   
_I could face anything the world threw at me.’_

‘Disgusting,’ Crowley muttered. ‘Don’t you dare credit me for that shit, I literally said nothing of the sort. You’re making that all up yourself.’

‘You absolutely said it.’

‘You’re taking it out of context. Believe me, I invented the entire concept of quoting people out of context, I can tell when it’s being done to me.’

‘How would you add context?’ Landon grinned. ‘Tell me, how should it start?’

-

2018\. After the world didn’t end.

-

It was downright unsettling, seeing himself walking around and fidgeting, tugging on the end of his black waistcoat nervously, the way Crowley himself never would do.

‘I hope you’re not going to act like that the rest of the day,’ Crowley said in a different voice. It was odd, hearing his words come from Aziraphale’s throat.

There really wasn’t anywhere to relax in Crowley’s flat. Most of it _was_ for show, to pretend to be a pompous rich asshole, but Crowley never really entertained guests, not here, so most of it was pointless, and he was only just beginning to realise this. Crowley sat in the kitchen, his pale hands around a hot mug of coffee, watching as Aziraphale (in Crowley’s body) paced back and forth.

‘I just… I know this has to have been what she meant, but… what if it’s wrong?’ Aziraphale (as Crowley) said.

‘I don’t think it’s gotta be perfect—’ Crowley (as Aziraphale) shrugged.

It felt odd, oh so very uncomfortable to be literally in the angel’s shoes. The bones felt weird, the shape felt weird. The clothes felt weird, not manifested fibre but actual human-made material. Crowley could see wisps of white out of the corner of his vision. Not fog, not clouds, but his own hair. The air itself looked different, though he supposed that made sense, seeing as how he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, after all. Everything looked brighter. Glaringly, uncomfortably bright.

‘But it _does_ , Crowley,’ the angel cut him off. His eyebrows were knit in anxiety over the top of Crowley’s expensive black sunglasses, sunglasses the demon desperately wanted back. ‘We’re risking everything, dear boy…’

‘Not so loud,’ Crowley warned in a whisper. ‘I don’t talk like that. Anyone heard you, they’d know it isn’t me.’

It felt like mere seconds ago they’d been defending the earth from the armies of both Heaven and Hell at once. He couldn’t believe that they had actually _talked down_ not just the Archangel Gabriel, but the Prince of Hell, Beelzebub themself. And now here Aziraphale and Crowley were, possessing each other’s forms - for what? Based on a vague prophecy?

Aziraphale pursed his (Crowley’s) lips. ‘I _know_ that, but there’s no one around right now, and… well, frankly, I’m sure no one would really mistake you for me in that state, either.’

‘Whass wrong with it?’ Crowley demanded in a voice he delighted in making sound different from its usual tone. He looked down and gestured broadly at the whole ensemble. He was even sitting up straight. It seemed perfect to him.

‘The bowtie,’ the angel said bitterly.

Crowley touched the bowtie. ‘I mean, it’s _your_ bowtie, didn’t even miracle it or anything, since you actually wear human clothes, I don’t know how else—’

Aziraphale sighed and began walking toward Crowley, much to the latter’s alarm. They’d seldom been this close before (there was that _one_ time - hadn’t _that_ been fun. Aziraphale didn’t even flinch). The angel undid the bowtie and pulled it loose.

‘You haven’t tied it properly.’

Crowley didn’t dare breathe as his friend fixed it, pulling gently and tutting in mild annoyance. His heart was racing. Could Aziraphale notice?

‘Yeah… well…’ He tried to sound casual. He could still feel Aziraphale’s aura faintly behind his own body, that sensation of cozy fireside warmth in the dead of winter. ’No one wears these anymore. _I_ certainly never have. Just miracled it with the rest of my clothes, the few occasions I have found to wear them.’

‘That much is obvious,’ Aziraphale said with such frigidity that Crowley was shocked _he_ was really the angel. He finished tying the thing and patted Crowley comfortingly on the shoulders.

It was downright weird seeing oneself clapping one on the shoulders. Crowley didn’t really care for it much. This was the feeling he supposed carnival funhouse mirrors were trying to achieve except… way worse, and not even in a fun sort of way.

When he thought of it outside of context, though, when he closed his eyes and thought of Aziraphale being so close to him, fixing his bowtie…

If only it was him, looking like himself and not so much like… well, like Crowley.

‘What about my scarf, then?’ Crowley demanded. ‘I’d say you’re wearing it all wrong as well.’

‘Is that what this thing is?’ Aziraphale asked, touching the silvery thing. ‘Nice try, dear. I’ve seen it for almost decade now, I know how you wear it.’

Well.

‘Do not,’ Crowley grumbled, arguing with the sake of arguing.

-

Present Day

-

‘I will not,’ Crowley grumbled.

Landon proved not to be such bad company, once you got used to how much he talked. A bit of an idiot, but Crowley felt he at least listened when Crowley explained why he was wrong.

They had met at a posh cafe beneath a sky that was inexplicably blue, sipping their coffee outside beneath a giant green umbrella.

He missed Aziraphale every day, dreamed about him whenever he slept. It was lonely - lonelier than Crowley had ever been. When he’d fallen from Heaven, he’d accepted his fate. It was painful, that much was certain. It hurt inside and out. The thing about that was, Crowley had known he had been abandoned by God. He’d known he’d never be on the same side as the angels ever again and didn’t expect anything. He knew he had only himself to rely on.

And then there was Aziraphale, offering the warmth and comfort Crowley knew he wasn’t deserving of. Still, he didn’t expect it, anticipate it, or ask for it. Aziraphale was just there, every so often, a bright spot of sun amidst the many clouds.

Before he knew it, he had become almost addicted to being around the angel. He had allowed himself to grow around the angel’s presence, moulding his life around the other’s. And now it felt as though a chunk of Crowley’s life had been ripped away. They had spent so much time together before _The Armageddon That Wasn’t_ that it became difficult for Crowley to imagine what life would be like without the angel once more.

Even with the angel gone, it was hard for Crowley to imagine. It felt like anymore he only slept, and dreamt of Aziraphale. He saw a new TV show and thought of how he wanted to share it, imagined arguing with him about the hithertos and wherefores, about the moral of the story, the character arcs, and whether Aziraphale would agree. He’d been in the middle of imagining his argument about why zombies were actually excellent tools of storytelling _(wonderful metaphors, angel, about the fear of seeing someone close to you change, and often they represent the very real fears of humans during the time the movie is made, usually political or societal)_ when Landon rang him up and asked if he wanted to get coffee.

It was probably better than imagining talking to someone who wasn’t there.

‘Why not?’ Landon smiled.

‘Why on earth would I change my wardrobe for you?’

‘It’s just so much black. It’s depressing,’ the singer shrugged innocently. ‘I mean, it’s summer now, oughtn’t you be wearing summery clothes?’

‘Pass,’ Crowley said.

‘I saw a T-shirt the other day that reminded me of you,’ Landon pushed on, relentless. ‘It said, “If you’re happy and you know it, go away.”’

‘I don’t wear T-shirts with words written on them.’

Crowley was beginning to wonder why he’d come out at all.

‘I think it would be so funny if you wore, like, a Hawaiian shirt.’

‘It’d be funny if you, like, stuck your head in the garbage disposal.’

Landon threw back his head and laughed earnestly.

‘My head wouldn’t fit in the garbage disposal,’ he chuckled.

Crowley knit his eyebrows in mild concern and then simply took a sip of his coffee, a complex thing that would come with so many abbreviations on the receipt that it would look like some sort of code (he’d thought he’d figured it out last time - a shot of walnut flavour (wa), nutmeg (n), kalhua (k), and extra raspberry syrup, but unfortunately raspberry became ‘rsp’ and ‘extra’ had been abbreviated as ‘x2,’ spelling ‘wankrspx2’ which wasn’t quite as satisfying as what he wanted, so now he was simply ordering cups of double-digit amounts of flavours of sugar and complaining). He’d sent it back three times to have it remade, which was about twelve times fewer than he normally would have. He felt rather off his game.

_I always thought Aziraphale was my opposite,_ he supposed. _We were actually rather similar._

_I should stop thinking of Aziraphale. Desperate, that is._

_I wonder if he would approve of Landon. Not exactly Mozart, but…_

‘Anyhow, I submitted the song to my label and they loved it! I mean, they tried to tweak a few lines that I wrote, but all the stuff from you, they loved it.’

‘Nothing came from me,’ Crowley said darkly.

‘Well, I can give you tickets to my first show of the new tour. It’s called, “The World of Eternity.”’

‘As in, you’re going to be bothering me for a world of eternity?’

Landon grinned and made pistol-shapes with his fingers and pretended to shoot Crowley. ‘Bingo. Our first show will be at Brixton Academy.’

‘Thanks, I’ll pass,’ shrugged Crowley without hesitation.

Landon clearly hadn’t been expecting that. His smile disappeared in an instant.

‘Wh—Why?’

‘Not interested,’ Crowley answered, turning away to look at his phone.

‘What about Annie and her boyfriend?’

It took Crowley a moment to connect ‘Annie’ with ‘Anathema’ and ‘boyfriend’ with ‘Newt.’ He frowned severely, wondering if Anathema knew or approved of this nickname. For all she seemed to have a generally positive opinion of Landon, he could imagine her balking at being called by such a name.

‘I dunno, ask them yourself. I’m not their guardian.’

Landon shook his head. ‘I don’t know how to get in contact with them.’

‘That’s not my problem.’

‘Can’t you just message them for me?’

Crowley looked up from his phone. ‘Anathema’s a witch. She sends ravens when she wants to get in contact. Which is a good match because Newt is something of a witch in his own right. Electronics are allergic to him.’

‘Well, why don’t _you_ want to come?’ Landon inquired. ‘Most people would be excited.’

Crowley leaned in conspiratorially, glancing around at the tables around them. Landon followed his lead and leaned in as well.

‘Don’t tell anyone, but I used to work with the CIA,’ Crowley whispered. ‘I was their inside man.’

‘No,’ Landon said with wide eyes as he leaned in.

‘Yes,’ Crowley nodded seriously. ‘I was sent to infiltrate this group, see. Now, one of the jobs I did while I was posing as a member of the mafia was stealing from a bank in Switzerland that neighboured a great concert hall. Part of the con was we would pose as staff sent to repair some of the broken fixtures in the concert hall. Instead, we actually began digging a tunnel through the wall in the basement to reach the bank. But wouldn’t that be discovered quickly? you may ask. It might have been. But we were prepared. ‘

‘What did you do?’ Landon asked in awe.

‘While three men drilled through the concrete, we created a giant painting to cover our work - me, as an 18th century violinist, and an inscription about this fictionalised version of me, and we used… pretty much my real name, stupidly enough. I panicked, since I was already using a pseudonym, and gave them my real name as the name we should use on the painting. Anyhow, it didn’t matter because we turned them in before they could reach the bank, and this painting somehow got away from me and now resides inside the Brixton Academy.

‘All this to say, there’s very realistic looking antique painting of someone who looks exactly like me with my exact name there and I’m sick and tired of people accusing me of being a vampire, most specifically the owner of the Brixton Academy.’

Landon leaned back slightly, eyebrows twitching in disbelief.

‘Is that true?’

‘Sure,’ Crowley shrugged.

Well, it was slightly more believable than the actual truth.

‘I bet there is a painting,’ Landon said suspiciously. ‘And it’s of your great-great grandfather or something.’

‘Whatever you want to believe,’ Crowley replied. ‘I’m just not a vampire.’

‘That’s twice you’ve said that now. I’m beginning to doubt even that.’

‘I’m drinking coffee, am I not?’ Crowley waved his cup in the air. ‘Vampires can’t consume things that aren’t blood, right?’

Landon laughed. ‘I don’t know, you did send it back an awful lot.’

‘What, you think if I send it back enough times one of the baristas will have the kindness to bleed in it or something?’

‘I think they’re more likely to spit in it,’ Landon said brightly.

That thought, strangely enough, hadn’t really occurred to Crowley, and frankly disgusted him. He avoided drinking the rest of it.

-

1726

-

Crowley cringed from his head to his toes as soon as he was off stage. He immediately pulled his collar loose. Some people offered their congratulations - normally Crowley would have been more than happy to accept them, but he couldn’t get the fact he’d started on the wrong bowing on the night of his big performance out of his head.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

How could he have made such a simple mistake? What’s worse, it had even been written in his copy of the music. Well, both up and down had been marked when Vivaldi changed his mind, and Crowley had marked the down bow a little more darkly than the up bow, but he’d practiced it so many times as an up bow that… in the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten. In the middle of Summer, too. There was no way it went unnoticed.

He packed away his violin neatly and slung it over his shoulder. Someone had opened a bottle of wine backstage and he borrowed the remnants (plus a few more bottles) to try and drown out his embarrassment.

By the time he stumbled out of the hall it was well past midnight.

‘Antonio—’ someone said, but he pushed them away.

_It was on purpose,_ he told himself. _That’s me causing mischief. Make Vivaldi second-guess himself by playing the wrong bowing. I’m a demon, after all, this is what I do._

It wasn’t as though he’d actively been looking forward to being concertmaster or anything. He’d avoided Vivaldi himself after the performance. He half-heartedly considered attributing the flub to the glasses, which everyone had begged Crowley to remove before the show.

What if they thought Crowley never deserved first chair in the first place?

Ouch, no. Better not think things like that. That was painful.

Crowley shoved that thought away. Well, Spring went well…

He wondered if any other orchestras were hiring or if he should give up music entirely.

‘You’re a hard man to find.’

Crowley meant to swing around with the grace of a serpent, but stumbled more like a drunkard.

He wasn’t sure whether or not to be surprised by the sight of Aziraphale, in all his pale, moonlit glory, standing in the alleyway like an ethereal beacon in the darkness. Crowley wondered momentarily if such an image could be painted. The portrait would be wreathed in black as a glowing angel in ivory stepped out of the shadows, cutting through the shadows as though glowing. The majority of the painting would be black and cream, with the purest blue in his eyes.

‘Notaman,’ Crowley slurred.

‘You know what I mean,’ the angel sighed. ‘I tried to send a message to you when you were backstage, did it not reach you?’

Crowley thought long and hard about the night following the sub-par performance.

‘No?’

Aziraphale pursed his lips. ‘Were you going to tell me at all you were going to be performing tonight? As _concertmaster_ , of all things…’

‘I don’t always know how to get in touch with you,’ Crowley snapped. ‘Besides, “concertmaster” don’t mean as much when there’s a soloist.’

‘Well, it would have been nice if you had at least _tried_ to contact me,’ Aziraphale huffed.

‘Who’s to say I didn’t?’

‘Did you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, see, there’s my point.’

‘Doesn’t matter much, anyway,’ Crowley grumbled. ‘I’m quitting after tonight.’

‘No,’ Aziraphale said, scandalised.

‘Was just a hobby. Not one I’m much good at, I’m afraid, even with demonic magic to help me. I’ve decided my efforts are best spent elsewhere.’

The sound of pounding footsteps pulled them into reality.

‘Master Crowley,’ a voice said, panting. Crowley vaguely recognised the voice as one of the lower violins, one whose name he never really bothered to remember. ‘Thank goodness I found you.’

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘There— there was a message for you, from a Mr. Fell—’

‘That would be me, dear,’ Aziraphale cut in with a tone of mild annoyance. ‘As you can see, I’ve found him myself and you can be on your way.’

‘My humblest apologies,’ the young man said. However, he made no indication to leave.

‘Is there something else I can help you with?’ Crowley frowned. He couldn’t remember if there was something he should be doing - his thinking was still fuzzy from the wine. Was the boy expecting a tip or something? But he was a violinist, right? Not an errand boy…

‘Well, I mean, after such a stunning performance—’

Crowley snorted loudly.

‘I was wondering if I could help you with anything. If you… needed assistance.’

‘Don’t need any.’

The young man made no indication of leaving or even acknowledging Crowley’s rejection.

Crowley’s brow furrowed. He exchanged an uncomfortable look with Aziraphale, who looked just as perplexed.

‘Fine,’ the demon finally shrugged. ‘You can be my bitch and carry my violin. ’S hurting my back to carry it everywhere, and I’m about to drop it anyway.’

The young man eagerly took it from Crowley’s hands.

‘Really, dear, you needn’t make him…’ Aziraphale said.

‘Nah, angel, he wants to help, see?’

The young man nodded eagerly. Crowley gestured widely to him as though that solved the whole thing.

Aziraphale frowned. ‘I mean, if you were having trouble carrying it, I wouldn’t have minded…’

The demon blinked at him. He couldn’t imagine forcing Aziraphale carry his things for him. He was making the boy carry his violin because he didn’t care about him. Aziraphale, on the other hand, was worth more than that.

‘Nahh,’ Crowley said. Aziraphale’s frown deepened. Ughhh, not this again, someone not taking ‘no’ for an answer. ‘Fine, you want to carry something? You can carry me.’

The angel sighed.

What Crowley had not been expecting was for the angel to turn around and kneel down, indicating to carry the demon on his back.

Crowley felt sobriety hit him like a brick. What on earth was going on?

‘What? Ngghh… N-No, angel, I didn’t…’

‘Stop fussing already.’

‘No, really, I was just joking—’

‘You know I _can_ carry you, don’t you?’

Crowley’s mouth opened and closed like a fish drowning on air. His mind was unhelpfully blank, only able to think of Aziraphale giving him an actual _piggy-back ride_ , and the word NO flashing in bold over that image.

Well, it wasn’t as though Crowley didn’t secretly like the idea, being so close, being carried by the guardian of the gate of Eden, but… he just couldn’t imagine forcing Aziraphale to humour him.

‘It— It’s not a matter of…’

But words were failing him. What _would_ it be like to be that close to him? Crowley bet he was warm.

Aziraphale stood and glared at Crowley.

‘Are you going to make me pick you up?’

‘Angel, look, I’m sorry, it was a joke,’ Crowley stammered. ‘I was being funny. Y-You don’t… you… I didn’t mean I actually wanted you to…’

‘You didn’t want me to what?’ Aziraphale demanded. ‘You didn’t invite me to your performance, and now you won’t let me… won’t let me help you in any sort of way…’

Crowley looked at the back violinist who stood awkwardly with Crowley’s expensive violin gripped in his hands.

_I’m making him carry it because I don’t respect him,_ he wanted to say, but knew he couldn’t.

‘Look, angel, I’ll make it up to you. Let’s talk about it over a drink, shall we?’

-

Upon Waking

-

‘I wonder if that’s why he left,’ Crowley muttered groggily to his empty room. ‘Because I wouldn’t let him carry me.’

The Dracaena plants occupying the corners of his room had no answer for him.

**Author's Note:**

> I, uh... it's really embarrassing posting things, especially since I don't write a lot, especially not since I was in high school. I'm also not a historian. I'm just processing things.
> 
> I can be found here as well.  
> https://n-jil.tumblr.com/


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